The Little Flow'rs
by E. S. Young
Summary: The Admiral had not been thinking as he handed over a still beating heart, mind filled with regret for the sins he had committed. Regret even for leaving that strumpet alone on Tortuga. Certain they would not meet again, he was eager to start life anew.
1. Another Essay

**The Little Flow'rs**

By

_E. S. Young_

**An Explanative Essay of Symbolism, Motifs, and Sexual Connotations**

Truthfully, I think coming up with a title was the biggest problem I ran into while writing this story, for, you see, until I find one that I feel fits, I will not be satisfied with the story as a whole, and therefore will not post said story. As this was a sequel, I wanted to find a title that somehow related to _the Ring O'Bells_. At first I tried to think of one that had the word "bell" in it, imagining that I could make it a theme since I intend for there to be a third story following this one. However, names such as _the Eight Bells_, _the Ships Bells_, _the Vesper Bells_ had very little to do with either story. So then I started looking up taverns, hoping to find an interesting one, which is what happened with _the Ring O'Bells_. Unfortunately, while I did manage to unearth some rather…colorful…pub names, once again, none of them could relate to the story.

Finally, and most unexpectedly, I happened upon the title as I reading William Shakespeare's _Macbeth_ for English class. There was a line spoken by the hilariously psychotic Lady Macbeth to her husband when he was fretting over being discovered as the one who, in his quest for power, killed the king, Duncan; one that had me intrigued.

"_Look like th' innocent flower,_

_But be the serpent under't_."

After reading over this quote several times, it slowly began to feel very appropriate for this story. Particularly when one considers how the plot contains many people putting on façades – acting the flower but being the serpent, if you will (and vice versa).

James, as we all know, is really the flower, wanting to be a good man and do what's right, but he has to be the serpent because he knows that Lord Beckett could ruin him just as easily as he reinstated him. In supporting James and his actions, according to the writers, he had never met Beckett until he gave him the heart at the end of _Dead Man's Chest_. All he knew was that Beckett is on _his _side, wanting to give pirates the old "short drop and a sudden stop." There was also, apparently, a scene that was cut from the end of _Dead Man's Chest _in which James, his Commodore's sword returned, poises the blade to stab the heart of Davy Jones, thinking that this is what Beckett wants him to do. Beckett, however, stops him, informing him that the East India Trading Company has much use for the heart. So, clearly, when he took the heart from Captain Jack, James _thought _that he was doing the world a service by turning it over to the authorities rather than leave it in the hands of a pirate.

Back to my original point: flowers and serpents. Beckett, as much as I like him (yes, it's true) is clearly the serpent, though he is seen by the Crown and his wife (an original character of mine) as being something of a flower because they turn a blind eye at his despicable antics since they are both more than well-provided for by him. Davy Jones _used _to be a flower, but became a serpent after cutting out his heart (or was it after refusing to ferry souls? We'll have to see), though there _still _remains a bit of a flower inside of him, beneath all the barnacles.

Elizabeth's serpent-like tendencies are a bit strong. Most notably, I think, is during the first and second movie when she uses James and Jack's love and/or lust for her in order to further her own needs. Though, in her defense, as Jou-Jou said in _Bells_, Elizabeth's using James was done out of love for Will. Her actions in _Dead Man's Chest_, all Sparrabeth implications aside, she chained Jack to the mast in the hope that she (and Will) could escape. So, yes, she _is _capable of doing contemptible things, all in all, she's more liken to a flower.

It is quite clear that Will is the one who possesses the most flower-like qualities of the group – brave, noble, honest, honorable, though he has his moments as a serpent such as in _Curse _when he knocked Jack unconscious and left him with a group of bloodthirsty, undead pirates. Jack is…Jack. When it comes down to it, there are no façades. He's both. And then, finally, there is Jou-Jou. She is…vague, though not quite as much as she was in the last story, in which case, that vagueness was deliberate, of course. However, it is still rather difficult to tell with her – is she one or the other? Is she both, like Jack? Or, perhaps, she is neither?

As you can see, Lady Macbeth's advice is quite fitting, all things considered. Originally, this story was going to be entitled _The Serpent Under't_, but I soon came to realized that I didn't care for that. Then, for the longest time, it was _Beneath the Flow'rs_ until I changed it briefly to _The Innocent Flow'rs_. That, however, just sounded too tacky, so I quickly (quickly as in ten minutes after thinking of it) eliminated that idea and replaced it, finally, with _the Little Flow'rs_. I went with this title not only because it felt right, but also because while, from what I can tell, there are no taverns that go by the name _the Little Flow'rs_, it _does _sound like a pub name, does it not? Thus keeping up with both the symbolism and the motifs in my stories.

On a final note, how is _the Ring O'Bells _symbolic, exactly? According to the Dictionary of Symbolism,

"_Is also phallic in some senses, a bell and handle represent a vulva and a phallus, the same with a bell and a tongue. Leads to embodiment of virginity, unmarried women adorn themselves with bells_."

Sadly, I came across this information several months _after_ posting the final chapter of _the Ring O'Bells_. Otherwise, I obviously would have done much more with the symbolism of bells. However, I still cannot help but feel that there was some _slight_, if unintentional, symbolic meaning involved upon entitling the story. The bell signifies man and woman – _the Ring O'Bells_ is told only from the points of view of one man and one woman. The same can be said for the cast. Aside from the pirates who beat James up; Bernson (the man who nearly crushes Jou-Jou to death); and brief appearances by Captain Jack, Elizabeth, Gibbs, and Mercer…James and Jou-Jou are really the only characters featured in the story. The rest I would consider to be extras or cameo appearances.

Interestingly, the bell also represents sexual intercourse – something that James and Jou-Jou clearly never share. Yet still it seems to suit the characters for that very reason, however odd it may be. Sex is always in the background of the story, rather prominently in some cases. The fact that, though erotic activities are happening all around them, James and Jou-Jou are never intimate and aren't even sexually attracted to one another is rather significant. In a way, it typifies the purity of their relationship, despite James's thinking himself wicked and disgusting for what he's done and what he has become, and Jou-Jou's prostituting herself and compromising her principles. Really, because of this, their relationship is the most virtuous one on Tortuga.

۞۞۞

**Notes**

James, as we all know, is really the flower – yes, I just referred to James as a flower. Though I could actually take the symbolism _further _by saying that he's not just a flower but a _rose, _and that Jou-Jou, unpleasant for everyone else but rather protective of James, is the thorny brier. But perhaps that's a bit much?

…all Sparrabeth implications aside – I _do _apologize to the J/E shippers who may take offence, but I just felt that it was unnecessary, not to mention badly done. I perhaps wouldn't have minded _so _much if the writers had gone about it properly, maybe included Sparrabeth connotations in _Curse_ (and no, I neither count the island scene because she was simply trying to get him drunk, nor the "Peas in a pod" moment because I always saw that as Jack saying "We're a lot alike, kid" almost in an avuncular kind of way). The fact that it just seemed sudden and without reason really irked me. In truth, I would have felt the same way if, despite being a Sparrington fan, James suddenly up and started flirting with Jack when he's supposed to dislike him. Now, I might have been all right with Elizabeth's kissing Jack had the previous Sparrabeth been coming from Jack alone and _only _if it was lust (which would have been in character for him) and not love as the writers implied. I'm not saying I hate J/E or those who ship it (of course not!), just that I didn't care for how it was handled in DMC.

**Disclaimer:** The movie _Pirates of the Caribbean _and all of its characters and the like are property of Disney. Any unfamiliar characters that may appear are mine…unless they aren't mine, in which case I will most certainly post another disclaimer. Any places, facts, or objects that may appear are real and/or true, despite how bizarre some things may sound. But then, of course, we _are_ talking about a world where things such as curses, undead pirates, fish people, and other sorts of supernatural craziness exist, so really, is anything going to seem all that far-fetched?


	2. Orders Most Disagreeable

**Chapter I **

**_Orders Most Disagreeable_**

"_Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall_."

–William Shakespeare's _Measure for Measure_ (Act II, Scene I)

۞۞۞

"The heart of Davy Jones."

Quite truthfully, he was eager to be rid of the wretched thing. It had been throbbing sickeningly ever since it had come into his possession, beating out a hellish tattoo against his own heart, chilling him to his very bones. Yet he hadn't dared part with it, not when it was the key to his redemption.

Lord Beckett was staring down at the foul object, appearing almost stupefied, as if he could not quite conceive the fact that the heart of Davy Jones – an entity of infinite power – had just been dropped unceremoniously onto his desk where it lay, pulsating calmly at everyone's revolted wonder.

Well, not everyone.

While Lord Beckett and Mr. Mercer gaped, transfixed, at the thudding organ, he took in his surroundings, his breath tight in his chest, filled with almost childish excitement at the prospects the future might hold. Yet, all the while, he gave off an air or nonchalance, not wanting to appear too eager in front of Lord Beckett. Intuition told him that the man would see that as a weakness, one that he would pounce on and then use against him. So he remained calm (outwardly, at least) and scanned the room with only mild interest.

The office – _his _office – was very much how he had left it, save for several noticeable alterations. Tasteful portraits and landscapes had replaced paintings that had once depicted ships and other things nautical; all of his medals and certificates of merit had been removed, along with much of his library; and he had certainly never commissioned that magnificent map to be painted, though he supposed it was fortunate that someone (most likely Beckett) had. He felt that he could make much use of it in the near future – after his reinstatement, when he regained charge of the fleet again, when he was a commodore again and soon to be, in all likeliness, an admiral.

He should have been pleased, but regret was smothering any happiness that he may have felt. Regret for what he had done, old regret for his past sins – his hands were drenched in the blood of those he had been unable to save – new regret for playing Elizabeth false – an act that may have resulted in her death as well – and even strange, unexpected regret for leaving that little strumpet alone on Tortuga.

Yes, it had overtaken him, winding tightly and mercilessly crushing him, and he found difficulty in fabricating a reason to stop it.

Yet he had done what was _right_, he insisted. He would have been mad to leave the heart in the hands of pirates. With or without it, they were a threat – one that he was determined, now more than ever before, to rid the world of. And was that not Lord Beckett's goal as well? Therefore, did that not make him the ideal person to give the heart to? The perfect ally for the famed "Pirate Hunter?"

But when he met Lord Beckett's gaze, saw frigid eyes that were trying to suppress the flames of delight that sparked within them at the thought of at last having absolute power, of being indomitable…he knew then that he had made a mistake.

He breathed deeply, remembering that he would do well to remain attentive in the presence of Lord Beckett, for the man had an air of malefaction that he had detected the moment they met. An enemy sat before him, one that desired absolute control of the seven seas. And he had just given the man that power, willingly and without a second thought.

When he had taken the heart, he had, admittedly, thought little of what repercussions might follow the act. Fueled by determination, anger, and, yes, desperation, he had fought for it, lied about it, stolen it… He had committed crimes that he would have never thought himself capable of, crimes that his former self would have seen another man arrested for. He had performed loathsome, deceitful acts all for the sake…of himself.

In the desperate struggle to return to what he once was, he had become something darker, viler – a person so alarmingly unlike himself that to think of it made his insides clench uncomfortably.

He had done what he had to – the words were repeated again and again, a rapid mantra within his head that sounded pitifully hollow.

"Mr. Norrington," Beckett said suddenly, the sharp tone piercing his thoughts, severing his chant. "I believe that this –" he gestured to the ever-beating heart "– will be acceptable payment."

His mask of stoicism never slipped, though he longed to roll his eyes at Beckett's pretense, at the show of insouciance that thinly veiled the exhilaration that the man surly must have been feeling.

"Which gives me the incentive to uphold my end of our arrangement," Beckett continued, sliding the Letters of Marque across the desk. He held them out only to pull back, giving pause to thought, and eyed them intently, considering.

Eyes that, despite the calm exterior, were coruscate with intrigue suddenly flicked up to him, and he watched as Beckett's features were suddenly twisted by a contriving smirk.

"Provided, of course, that _you _uphold your end, Mr. Norrington."

Though he had hardly expected his duties to Lord Beckett to halt upon retrieving the heart, he couldn't stop the hot irritation as it curled itself around him. Still, he managed to refrain from being too terribly snide when he said, "If you would care to elaborate, Lord Beckett? For I have been under the impression that my only order was to procure the compass – which you were intending to use to locate the heart, were you not?"

"Indeed, I was."

"As _that _task has already been carried out," he went on, "you will, hopefully, understand why I am at a loss as to what more you require from me."

Beckett's smirk widened.

"Have you any thoughts as to what he whoever possesses the heart of Davy Jones is capable of?"

"I am told that he has control of the man from whom it came," he answered plainly.

"And what does _that _man control?" Beckett queried.

"_The Flying Dutchman_, and, with that, the seven seas," he replied. And as he said this, he felt as if he had swallowed a bitter liquid that tricked down in a thin line, and he felt certain that he could have traced it, it felt so startlingly real. It seemed to be made of both fire and ice, for though it froze his vocal chords, it felt as though his throat had begun to blister. Burning as it ran, it spread throughout his chest, engulfing his heart and burrowing deep, leaving him painfully numb.

He had a wretched idea as to what Beckett's orders would be, and it was with a sickening dread that he realized that he would not disobey them. Not now. Not when he was about to gain back everything he had worked so sedulously for. But…later, perhaps, if the opportunity arose.

Beckett's gaze was unwavering as he gave a slow nod of agreement.

"Exactly."

He watched as the other man rose from his chair, strode across the room – drawing out the moment, savoring each step, as if knowing that stalling would invoke impatience – and came to stand beside a long, rectangular case. One that was entirely too familiar.

His. And in it, the magnificent sword that had been given to him on that day, nearly a year ago, when he had been proud and disillusioned enough to believe that all was right, when suddenly everything began to go terribly and uncontrollably wrong. He had left the sword behind on the day he had resigned, unable to look at it, believing himself unworthy to carry a weapon that had been crafted for a far better, much more capable man.

Beckett was watching him, awaiting his reaction, but he kept his emotions in check, his face blank.

"This is yours, I believe," Beckett pronounced, lifting the blade from its case, examining it with a critical eye. "A fine piece of weaponry. Mr. Turner is quite skilled in his trade. It's a shame that such talent went to waste in favor of a business as detestable as piracy. Which brings me to my point…

"Though it is true that the number of pirate attacks has been steadily depleting, the threat has not been completely eradicated. Several notorious vessels are still at large, and as long as that fact remains, there poses a danger to the East India Trading Company."

Beckett paused, allowing time for this information to be absorbed.

"The Company owes you a great debt of service, Mr. Norrington," he explained. "By putting the heart of Davy Jones in our hands, we can now ensure that the remaining traces of piracy are at last eliminated."

He nodded once in understanding. If that was all that they wanted…if they did not abuse their newfound power and allow it to corrupt them –

"However," Beckett said, unknowingly interrupting his train of thought, "commanding a ship such as _the Flying Dutchman_ is no simple task. It requires a redoubtable officer – one with a strong, capable hand." A pause, then, suddenly, "How old are you, Mr. Norrington?"

He was taken aback, but answered promptly nonetheless.

"Twenty-eight."

"Which means that you were twenty-seven when you became a commodore, correct? Most impressive – ignoring the lamentable events that shortly followed your promotion, of course."

He clenched his teeth, feeling both resentful and abashed as his heartbeat quickened, but he did not condescend to put thoughts to voice.

"Still," Beckett admitted, "your previous achievements are quite admirable. I take it there was no…financial aide influencing your promotion?"

Despite feeling unfit for the rank he had held, he took offence at Beckett's implication, his honor (what little was left of it) greatly impugned.

"If there _was _anything of the sort, I was unaware of it," he replied tersely.

The corners of Beckett's mouth twitched – an indication that the man was pleased with both the answer he had received and the fact that his question had struck a nerve.

"I'd thought not. And were you not single-handedly responsible for the near-complete elimination of the pirate threat in the Caribbean?"

"The _fleet _was responsible," he began to correct, "I –"

"But did they not serve under _your _command?" Beckett pressed, his voice quiet. "Were they not carrying out _your _orders?"

_Yes! And many of those men are now dead because of it!_ But he merely said, his tone icy, "That is true."

"And did you not garner a reputation as being the great 'Pirate Hunter?'"

There was a blockage in his throat that was difficult to swallow as unwanted memories suddenly bore down upon him, his heart burning, freezing, then burning again.

"Yes."

"As I stated earlier, Mr. Norrington, _the Flying Dutchman _is no ordinary ship. It will take a skilled man to sail her. And, despite the number of errors you man have made in the past year, one cannot deny the amount of evidence supporting your reputation as an excellent commander."

He locked eyes with Beckett, steeling himself for what would come next.

"I believe we had a deal, did we not?"

"We did."

"That being that in return for the compass – or, the heart, as it so happens – you would be given a full pardon, and would be reinstated as well as promoted."

As he said this, Beckett moved as if to return the sword.

He felt his fingers twitch ever so slightly, and he truly longed to reach out and take the blade and with it all that had been lost to him, though he knew that he deserved none of it.

Suddenly, Beckett halted, his arm still partially outstretched, and surveyed the sword thoughtfully.

"Of course," he said calmly, "Especially given the recent marks on your record, the navy wouldn't dare accept you again, Letters of Marque or no. However, all is not lost. As I imagine you're already well aware, during periods in which England is not engaged in war, the East India Company often employs members of His Majesty's Royal Navy. And now, with _the Flying Dutchman _at our beck and call, the Company has need for another admiral. With credentials such as yours, we would be mad to overlook you. So all that leaves now, is your decision." At last, Beckett held out the sword. "Do you agree to serve as a member of the East India Trading Company, follow our orders without question, placing duty before all else?"

He stared at the blade, but did not take it.

"What," he inquired, carefully wording the question, "specific orders…would I be asked to carry out?"

Beckett smirked again.

"I had thought that we had already established that: Rid the sea of pirates as well as any other vessels that pose a threat to the Company."

"Other vessels meaning rival trading companies?" he demanded, his voice cool yet darkly tinted with scorn. "Am I to understand that you wish for me to arrest pirates, yet at the same time commit acts of piracy myself?"

"Did you or did you not allow a pirate to escape when you could have easily taken him back into custody?" Beckett countered. "What of Mr. Turner? Did you not choose to overlook the number of blatantly piratical crimes that _he _committed? And didn't you, no less than two weeks ago, join the crew of _the Black Pearl_, sign the ship's roster, take orders from her captain, and sail under a pirate flag? It is actions such as these, Mr. Norrington, that make me question whether or not your loyalties truly lie with the Crown, as you so claim."

Years of military training were all that quelled the urge to do more than glare as he informed Beckett, "My loyalties are, have always been, and forever shall be with my King and country. And I will ask that you _do not _malign them in such a manner again."

_But does being issued by the King make the orders right?_ he found himself wondering, as he often had. No, he had finally come to admit, but that did not mean that he could go against them. _Especially_, he reminded himself yet again, _in my current situation._ If he did not meet Beckett's demands, surly his pardon would be revoked? Which meant a trip to the very gallows where he himself had sent so many. And his death, while noble, would be in vain, for eventually Beckett would find another man who he thought was equally capable of overseeing Davy Jones's ship.

Still…if Beckett planned to use the heart to attack enemy trading ships, he could not possibly condone such slaughter let alone partake in it. Yet he needed Beckett to believe that he would not cross him, though he was far from playing the sycophant, refusing to be dominated.

"I find it very interesting," Beckett said quietly, "that the man once known as the scourge of piracy in the Caribbean would _sympathize _with the ruffians."

"Hardly," he returned disdainfully. "Lord Beckett, disregarding my personal feelings on the matter, it has come to my attention that it would be most unwise to decline your offer."

"Indeed," Beckett replied, eyebrows arched in curiosity. "What, may I ask, sparked this sudden realization? I was under the impression that _you _were a man who put the needs of others before his own."

Slowly, his lips began to quirk upward. Bitterly amused, he recalled the advice he had been given as he wallowed in self-pity, a miserable drunkard on Tortuga. How could she have known that he would take her words to heart? That, like her, he too would come to live by them? Truly, she had been more helpful that she could have ever imagined.

"I have found, Lord Beckett, that there are times when one must be selfish in order to survive."

۞۞۞

Winning the allegiance of James Norrington had proven to be more of a trial than he had originally thought. The man neither trusted nor respected him, nor was he enthusiastic about having to serve under his command. All of this, however, had not only been expected, but also prepared for. Trifle, really; mere nuisances – hardly worth his concern, though that wasn't to say that he didn't file all of this information away in his mental inventory.

No, what piqued him was James Norrington's sense of honor and decency – the man's reaction to being ordered to attack opposing merchant ships had been a clear indicator. And though he had been informed that the disgraced former-Commodore staunchly adhered to the word of the law, recent accounts told him that the man was beginning to realize that what was law and what was right did not always coincide. He would need to keep that in mind when he promoted Norrington to admiral of the East India Trading Company and put him in charge of a ship like _the Flying Dutchman_. Fortunately, he had already seen to stationing a most _au fait_ emissary at Norrington's estate, though several more would need to be aboard the ship as well. He could not risk the man's righteousness forcing him to turn a blind eyes whenever he crossed paths with those he did not see the need to arrest or attack.

However, he mused as he watched Norrington, the man's eyes aglow with painful recognition and longing, he doubted that the former-Commodore would betray him in the near future – not when his life had just been restored to its former glory.

"There will be a proper ceremony, of course, to celebrate your promotion to admiral. It will be held one week from today, and you will report for duty the following Monday. Is that understood?"

He closely observed Norrington as the man gave a slow nod of agreement, gently fingering the tassel at the hilt of the blade. His fingers merely ghosted over golden threads, as if he was unable to believe that he now held it (with somewhat unsteady hands) and that it would not be snatched away from his a second later, uncertain if he was truly being accepted by society again.

Which was reassuring, he thought, for surly, if Norrington valued his former life, then he would not be inclined to go against him.

_At first_, he reminded himself, making a note to keep an eye on Norrington for potential signs of treason – not that he ever left any of his associates unmonitored. Trust was something to be earned and he did not give his easily. Truthfully, in his life, the only exception he could recall was his wife, Lillian. She had the privilege, it was true, but it was only through her own meekness and lack of wit, not honesty and loyalty, that she had gained it. With a timid and obedient nature and a head that housed nothing save the latest styles, gossip, and social events, his wife was hardly a threat. He would not trouble her with talk of business, and she knew better than to pester him with questions about his day. What's more, Lillian revered him, even if she did not love him, and that was exactly what he wanted from her. And now, with the recent arrival of an old friend from England, she would give neither him nor the Company a second thought, swept up in the task of playing hostess and talking of memories past.

This thought made him smile. Lillian – simple, accepting, eager to please, and content to remain ignorant of the world around her. Truly, she was the ideal wife.

James Norrington, however, was none of these things. From what he had gathered on the man, the soon-to-be Admiral was not only intelligent, but also highly resourceful and not above being ruthless if the situation called for it. Strict but fair, or so the marines had said – a trait that he would be wary of. Fairness, in the case of men like James Norrington, resulted in a diminished resolve as well as a display of favoritism to those who should have faced imprisonment.

Ruthless, fair, but a brilliant strategist and an esteemed commander, one who continued to garner the devotion and admiration of his men – that had been clear after speaking with several of them. He needed also to consider the fact that he and Norrington were allies in that they shared the same goal: Rid the world of piracy. And it was true that the man had nearly expunged the pirate threat in the Caribbean, despite having willingly permitted one to walk free. The Admiralty had quickly stepped in to put an end to this, however, he reminded himself, ordering the then-Commodore to capture Sparrow or both he and his men would face a court-martial.

He smirked, confident that what he had always believed was true: Given the proper motivation, and even the most defiant of men would kneel and obey.

۞۞۞

"Forgive me, sir, but there _is _one final question."

Beckett arched his eyebrows but motioned for him to continue.

"My orders are to attack any and all enemy vessels, correct?"

The other man nodded.

"Pirate ships falling under that category, of course. However," he went on, a hint of contempt creeping into his tone, "as you are already well aware, the governor's daughter was last seen on _the Black Pearl_. Therefore, my question –"

"Ah," Beckett cut in. "_You're_ concerned that you will fire on a ship, while, unbeknownst to you, Miss Swann happens to be on board the aforementioned vessel."

His lips thinned at the interruption, but he showed no other sign of irritation and gave a brief nod of confirmation.

The corners of Beckett's mouth curled upward in wicked amusement.

"You need no longer worry for her safety."

His brow knit in confusion. Had she been captured? Surly, he would have heard, gotten wind of _something_… It had only been a little over a week since their excursion to the Isla Cruces…

"I'm afraid that _the Black Pearl _had had a rather unfortunate run-in with _the Flying Dutchman_, specifically Davy Jones's _pet_. Perhaps you've heard of it? The Kraken?"

Stories long-forgotten flitted back to him – ones he had heard growing up as a child with a keen interest in the sea. They were tales of a fearsome monster that lurked near the black ocean floor, rising to the surface only to seize an unsuspecting ship with its great, thrashing tentacles in a grip so fierce and unrelenting that the vessel would shatter as if made of the most delicate china.

His eyes went wide.

"_Atrocious _creature, really," Beckett sighed, "though it could _certainly _be of use to the Company – provided, of course, that it can be tamed."

It felt as though there was something caught in his throat or as if his vocal chords had grown dusty during Beckett's rambling about once-mythical sea creatures. He coughed a little to clear it, though it had little effect, for when he spoke, his voice, while urgent, sounded distant and strained.

"You were saying, sir?"

"Oh yes," Beckett replied mildly. The man was toying with him, drawing out the moment, relishing in how it was destroying him not to have his greatest fear confirmed, not to hear what he already knew.

"It is," Beckett began, "my…unfortunate duty…to inform you that the entire crew of _the Black Pearl_ – the ship itself, in fact – were lost during the attack, _including_," he added, "Miss Elizabeth Swann."

His sword nearly slipped through his fingers but he kept a firm hold, his grip suddenly vice.

"Her fiancé, as well as the ship's captain were also killed," Beckett informed him with such casualness that it was all he could do to keep from running the man through with his tainted sword. How dare he speak of her death as though it were _nothing?_ Countless years of experience in the navy, training that had saved him from his emotions when faced with brutal carnage, and his natural ability to keep a level head during times of crisis – this was what spared him the humiliation of suffering a loss of composure in front of Beckett.

He had to remain calm. Any display of weakness would not do – his peers and superiors would never respect a man who was a slave to his emotions, who shattered the moment one soldier fell. He was a naval officer – strong, courageous, hardened, stolid. He did not fear death (not his own). It was what he had told himself as a young midshipman on his first sea voyage, and letter as lievtenant setting sail for Jamaica, leaving England with the knowledge that he would never see his family (what was left of it) again. And it was what he told himself now as Lord Beckett explained that he was allowing him a week to make himself presentable, that if there were any questions he was to say that he had been in Tortuga working as an informant for the Company, and that Beckett was _certain_ (said as a threat, a warning) that he would not come to regret reinstating him.

It was all he could think, knowing that the woman he had loved – and, perhaps, did still – was dead.

۞۞۞

Rain spattered against the windows of the carriage, the downpour so intense that it rendered the world outside nearly indistinguishable, a teary-eyed blur of dark shapes and colors. It fell heavily, the thick sheets of water quickly drenching the earth, turning dirt to mud that clung to the wheels and the hooves of the horses, slowing the journey homeward.

Bleak, cold, miserable…yet would it have made a difference had the sun been shining, bright and warm as it had been that morning?

No. Not with the burden he now bore, not with the thought that would haunt him until the end of his days.

His fault; it was all his fault…

It had consumed him and he had allowed it to invade once he had entered the carriage, locked away with naught but his thoughts.

Now images seemed to swarm around him – tiny, insignificant things; half-forgotten memories; fragments of her.

Aboard _the Dauntless_, approaching a grieving child, hesitant and awkward but wanting to give her comfort – he, too, had lost his mother at so young an age.

Watching as she left his side to play with the boy they had found adrift at sea and glad for it. Perhaps her journey to the Caribbean would be less tedious now that she had a playmate to keep her heart safe from gloom and her head away from the absurd notion that pirates were "exciting."

Standing on the docks of Port Royal, more than willing to comply as a young girl asked in earnest for him to define dozens of nautical terms. She pointed to various parts of the ship, wanting to know what a marlinespike was, what scuppers were, which side was port and which was starboard…

Teaching the boy the art of fencing and noting that, though a novice, holding a sword seemed to come as naturally as breathing to the young man. All the while he was well aware that she was watching them – awe, envy, and determination written clearly on her face.

Afterward, sadly but firmly denying her request (and later, her pleas) to help her master a blade of her own. A shocking idea – what would her father have said? Yet she had turned on him so coldly that day.

At the Governor's Christmas celebration, spying her across the crowded ballroom, looking nearly as bored as he felt. The party had suddenly become less dull when she had accepted his offer for a dance. How he had hoped that she had felt the same way.

Riding, galloping fast and hard to the cliffs that overlooked the ocean. Listening with amusement to her complaints of the ridiculousness of riding sidesaddle and then being shocked by her bold words of envy for a man's freedom to wear breeches.

Waking with a start, drenched in cold sweat. Panting slightly, he had looked down to find himself almost fully hard and, with dreams of her still lingering like smoke, had known that he would need clean linens, come morning.

On a stroll by the beach, listening to her romanticized talk of piracy, and how vehemently she expressed her yearning for the independence and excitement that she thought came with such a life. With windblown strands of hair swirling about her face, her eyes bright with passion, he had realized, then, that he loved her.

His promotion ceremony, accepting his sword from a man whom he had come to look upon as the father figure he had privately wished for. The cool hilt of the blade had seemed to fit his grasp perfectly as he raised it skyward. Almost like a child, he had hoped that she was watching him, wanting to make her proud.

Learning that pirates had kidnapped her – hideous images had come at him like an unstoppable flood. He had wanted to skewer the blacksmith's apprentice for his idiocy and irrationality, for insinuating that he was failing to do his duty, for accusing him of not caring about the woman that he loved – that they _both _loved. Feeling his heart sink as he watched their fastest ship (and their best hope at saving her) sail away, stolen by the young blacksmith and a roguish pirate.

Hearing her accept his proposal but uncertain as to her reason why. Dread had gnawed at him, for he had been so sure that she had done it all for the boy… But then…excitement building, and a strange lightness overcoming him. She had called him a fine man, and she had said this seriously but with a smile – perhaps she _did _share the same feelings for him…? Yes. Just maybe. It was bizarre. He had felt almost…giddy, and had been unable to recall the last time he had had the pleasure of experiencing such a marvelous sensation.

That wonderful feeling being ripped away the moment she threw him over for the blacksmith, when all of his dreadful theories proved true and he realized that she had never truly loved him.

Cold, unhidden scorn in her voice as she had berated him for chasing after _the Black Pearl_. Guilt but also frankness in his own as he tried to explain that there was no way around it. Not with the Admiralty breathing down his neck, furious at his incompetence so shortly after his promotion. Losing a ship as fine as _the Interceptor _was inexcusable, but allowing a notorious pirate to escape and then to not pursue the man for over a month? A court-martial loomed over not only his head, but also those of his men, and he had had no other choice but to give chase.

Tortuga – filthy, disgraced, blinded by guilt and anger, he had kept to the shadows, occasionally stepping into the light to ignite a brawl. His companions: A bottle of rum and a little doxy whom he had snapped at when she had asked whether his once intended had ever apologized for breaking his heart.

Seeing her act the coquette, openly flirting with a lewd pirate captain. He had felt disgust and outrage that he would have never thought he could direct at her. It had all been for nothing. He had let her go, endured public humiliation at her rejection, sacrificed his happiness for her own, set her free to be with the one she truly loved…and now? Did she even love _that _man?

A heart – not his, but that of a man perhaps just as broken as he – beating a calm tattoo. It was a stark contrast to the frantic thudding of his own. With the horrifying thing came the promise of redemption: a return to status, further disposal of the pirate menace, and her safety. Despite how she had recently shown her true colors, he cared for her still. And so, with the empty chest tucked under his arm, he had bolted, willing danger to come after him and away from her.

He had wanted to help her, he truly had, but… Nothing. Effort meant nothing if one failed as greatly as he had.

Suddenly, the carriage arrived at his estate. He peered, uninterested, out the window at the gloomy structure before him. Pity that, after so many months of longing for it, home wasn't a very welcome sight at all.

Several servants gawked at him, one even gasped, but the rest went about their duties as if unaffected by his unsightly appearance. Lord Beckett must have told them to expect his arrival in advance, for why else would they grant entrance to a slatternly wretch such as himself? Any other scoundrel would have been cast out on the streets – not that he didn't deserve that very thing (and worse).

God, what had he done?

Bone-weary, he trudged up the staircase, then down the hall to his bedchamber.

She was gone. Because of him, she was gone.

Hands acting of their own accord, he turned the knob. Silently, the bedroom door swung open.

She suddenly seemed so young…a mere child – a girl on her way to becoming a woman, passionate and full of life. It seemed impossible to think that she was –

"James?"

A hand over his heart, he stumbled back at the sight that greeted him.

Across the room, on the maroon window bench, sat a woman.

The skirts of her dove-gray gown swirled restlessly as she stood. Her head tipped to one side inquisitively, and her eyebrows rose.

"Aren't you going to give me a proper greeting, then?"

He said nothing, merely stood there, gaping, at a loss for words, his mind trying and failing to wrap itself around what was happening.

A woman. Who – why?

And then he knew.

The features – striking – were highlighted with touches of paint and powder – not as much as was worn by Tortugan jezebels, but slightly more than was proper for a lady of society, the lips especially. Bright red, their color had been chosen deliberately so as to draw attention to her mouth, as if to inform him that its fullness was not to be overlooked. Though stylish and not terribly scandalous, her dress was teasing, revealing only a little but just enough bosom to be noticed. And, with the assistance of a corset and wide skirts, the slender form gained abundance exactly where it was needed.

Not a whore, no…but a mistress.

Lord Beckett had given him a mistress.

Did he think so little of him? Did he see him as such a depraved, lecherous cur that he thought that _this _would be the perfect way to thank him? To reward him for bringing him the final piece in his quest for power and for signing Elizabeth's death warrant in the process?

His heart was pounding rapidly, feeling constricted, as if swelling within his chest.

This was wrong – he had never meant for it to be like this, never wanted everything to turn so _black_… His plan had been to _help_. Yes, his intentions had been selfish, but ultimately they had been good, hadn't they? He had only wanted to regain the life he had lost, to return to protecting the people of Port Royal, to assist in bringing an end to the Golden Age of Piracy, to keep Elizabeth safe from the hideous creatures that had outnumbered them so greatly, to at least give her a fighting chance…and yet…

_I killed her_.

The woman was watching him, her dark eyes wary and confused, and when she took a step forward, it was suddenly too much for him to bear.

His finely crafted wall of resolve had at last received its fatal blow, and it slowly began to crumble, brick by brick, until only the dust and rubble remained.

Unguarded, he fell to his knees and wept.

۞۞۞

**Notes**

…office – I'd always liked the idea of Beckett claiming James's office as his own, though I have no proof that this is cannon. However, and, sadly, I cannot remember where I read it, I recently came across an article in which the writers confirm that it is indeed James's office that Beckett is sitting in at the end of DMC. Interesting, that.

…later, perhaps, if the opportunity arose – I hated how clueless and inept they made James seem in At World's End . Though, from what I've read of the rough draft for the movie, there is scene with James and Davy Jones in which they are arguing over James's doing nothing to stop Beckett's reign of terror. "Davy Jones: Is that all? You will continue in this madness?/James: That is all. I will not question my orders. I violated my duty once. My life has been returned to me – I will not lose it again!" Of course, this scene (if filmed) was cut from the movie (as well as any others, it would seem, that prove that he is a sympathetic character), though I'm glad the writers thought of it, as it supports my own reasons behind James's behavior in AWE. However, I can't help but think that at some point it would get to be too much and James would realize that there isn't any honor in what he's doing, that it isn't worth the amount of carnage they've caused. At this point, I like to think that he would at least try to overthrow Beckett, that he maybe had some kind of plan forming before...well...you all know of his unfortunate fate. So, if given the proper motivation, would James challenge Beckett's orders and try to rally a team to fight against him? Methinks the answer might be yes.

"Twenty-eight." – I was informed by a friend that Disney claims that James was twenty-six during CotBP. I however, have chosen to make him twenty-eight. It, in my mind, sounds more mature than twenty-six (if that makes any sense) while it is still a young enough age to make his promotion to commodore rather impressive.

Beckett held out the sword – obviously, in At World's End , Beckett returns the sword after James has been made Admiral. However, if you'll recall the deleted scene that I mentioned in the introduction, I much prefer that scene to the one in AWE.

"...selfish in order to survive." – the thought of Jou-Jou's words having an impact on James and possibly even influencing his stealing the heart is just too attractive an idea to pass up. Besides, it's all part of working my story in with the actual cannon story and hopefully doing a decent job of it.

…the East India Company often employs members of His Majesty's Royal Navy – this is true, from what I have read. If there wasn't a war going on, then there wasn't any real need for the soldiers, and therefore no need to pay them. As a result, many men would work as agents for the EITC until they were needed in the navy again.

…the devotion and admiration of his men – I love the idea of James's men being loyal to him, no matter what. Truthfully, my personal theory on James's mysterious resignation is that, as I mention in the story there was a court martial after the Dauntless was lost in the hurricane. After hearing of this, James's officers protested the court-martial, shielding him from the consequences out of loyalty and love for their commander. However, James, being the kind of person he is, couldn't bear the thought of bringing them down with him and resigned in order to bear the consequences of what he had done.

…his tainted sword – yes, it's an "evil" sword now because Beckett has touched it. And now I feel mean saying that, since I like Beckett, but anyway, back to the point. Here's how I figure it works: Will made the sword and it was given to James when he was made Commodore, back when he still thought himself noble and righteous. At this point, the sword was pure . However, after the incident with the hurricane, James no longer felt he deserved such a fine weapon and left it behind when he went to Tortuga. Then Beckett shows up and plays with the sword, as we see in DMC, thus "tainting" it, in a sense, because he's the baddie. So, when he gives it to James, as it is a defiled blade, it represents James's choice to go to work for the Dark Side. And I'll stop there, since I'll be giving away key points in the story if I continue. : )

He did not fear death – yeah, I couldn't pass up a chance to use this. Besides, I think, especially now, he doesn't fear death, not his own. Rather, he fears the loss of those he cares about.

…the woman he had loved – Despite not being much of a Norribeth shipper, I truly believe that James was in love with Elizabeth. I also believe that he was beginning to heal from her rejection during DMC, as is evident by his snarky attitude toward her when he sees her flirting with Jack – though I also think that some of that was out of disgust and anger. However, it, in my mind, would seem odd for James (or anyone, for that matter) not to grieve if he learned that the woman he had loved and been friends with for nearly nine years had died. And on the note of Elizabeth dying, supposedly there was yet another scene cut from the end of DMC where Beckett informs James of Elizabeth's death and James grows rather teary-eyed at this news. Once again, Disney's cutting scenes that show his softer side...

...a young girl asked...for him to define dozens of nautical terms – well, honestly, how else does Elizabeth know so much about ships:-)

Teaching the boy the art of fencing – once again, how else did Will learn how to use a sword? Somehow, I doubt that Mr. Brown is skilled at fencing, and it just seems fitting that, if asked, James would take the time to teach Will. What's more, in the writer's commentary for CotBP, they mention that James is the best swordsman, equally talented as Barbossa and surpassed only by Will, which would explain, in a way, why the boy is such a skilled fighter.

...wanting to make her proud – I hope that James's recollections didn't make his sound like a pathetic, lovesick schoolboy. It just seems realistic for a person, no matter who they are, to want to impress the one they love. I don't want it to seem like he would desperately try to wow Elizabeth, but do think that he would want her to be pleased with him.

He had wanted to skewer the blacksmith's apprentice – after becoming a James fangirl, I did, too. As much as I like Will (loved him in AWE, in fact), I get annoyed with him every time I watch this scene, now. Because, really, he isn't, as James points out, a military man or a sailor. He has no real right to order a bunch of naval officers around, yet he barges in on them, informing them of a fact that they're already aware of and saying that they aren't doing a decent job. Then he tells them to bargain with Jack, and even after James informs him that they've already spoken with the pirate, Will still keeps at it. Really, the main reason Will was able to rescue Elizabeth was because Jack recognized him as Bootstrap Bill's son and knew that he could use him. So, really, it was through luck that Will got to be the hero of the story. Yes, he's young and irrational, I know. But still. I'm on Team Norrington, now; I can't help it.

He had felt almost…giddy – of all the scenes that were cut from CotBP, I wish that the "unconditional request" one had been left in final production. Jack Davenport is adorable in it. But, all fangirling aside, it also says a lot about James as a character. You can see how worried he is that Elizabeth only agreed to marry him because she wanted to save Will, and then how overjoyed he becomes when he starts to think that she might actually love him. "Excited" and "giddy" are the only words I can use .to describe him whenever I watch this scene.

...unable to recall the last time he had...such a marvelous sensation – not saying that James is lonely or depressed. Not at all. Just that nothing can compare to being in love with someone and knowing (or, in his case, thinking) that they feel the same way.

**A Simple Request/Reminder from the Author**

I would not like to have to take this story down and rewrite it again as I have done with my works in the past. Therefore, I am asking all of my readers to alert me at once if anything is historically inaccurate, anyone is out of character, words are improperly spelled, grammar isn't up to par, or if anything seems Mary-Sue-ish even in the slightest. Remember kids, praise may be nice and make the author feel good about him or herself, but constructive criticism is more helpful in the long run. Politeness is preferred, though you may be harsh if you like – sometimes a little severity is the only way to get the message across. But also take note that by merely writing "Dear God, you suck big time. You suck. Your characters suck. Your story sucks. My eyes are bleeding from how much it sucks. Don't write anymore, I beg you" you aren't helping me anymore than people who say "OMG! U rool i wanna mary u!!!11 this is the new OTP!!!!1one1!" are. So please, help me out, but be kind about it if you can. _Merci_ in advance!


	3. Heartsick and a Harlot

**Chapter II**

**_Heartsick and a Harlot_**

Note: This is the chapter that concerns me the most. In it, not only do I make an attempt to explore James's past and hope that it doesn't feel too out-of-place, but there's also Jou-Jou to consider. Remember how I mentioned at the end of the _Ring O'Bells_ that I was worried that what I did to her in the sequel would not be well received? Well, perhaps, when you are through with this installment, you'll see what I meant. Of course, as always, everything will be further elaborated in the notes at the end of the chapter.

"_She looks so haughty that I should have thought her a princess at the very least, with a pedigree reaching as far back as the Deluge. But this lady was no better born than many other ladies who give themselves airs; and all sensible people laughed at her absurd pretensions_."

– William Makepeace Thackeray, _the Rose and the Ring_

**۞۞۞**

It was quite overwhelming, seeing him like this, though she imagined that she should have expected it. With the amount of guilt the poor man had shouldered coupled with the number of tribulations that had afflicted him, he was certain to buckle some day, shattering under the immense pressure of it all.

It had simply been her hope that she would not be present to bear witness when that day came. Though as Luck, the obdurate demon, would have it, she was there and she had had to watch as he crumpled to the floor, as the first of many tears made clean paths down his dirt-streaked face. And she had been unable to stop herself from leaving her perch at the great window to rush to his side.

It was the tears that did it. A man trapped in the throes of despair had always been one of her more severe foibles. When one had, at the news of his father's death, fallen victim to grief—when she had seen a man who she had always thought to be so strong and seemingly unbreakable reduced to a poor, lost little boy…it was all she could do to keep from succumbing to her own emotions and darting from the room as he had wept in a dreary heap on the floor. It had been almost…frightening, seeing him like that. Yet she had not fled the scene, though her legs had desperately wanted her to, practically quivering with anxiety. Instead she had gingerly embraced the stricken man, allowing him to weep in her arms.

And now she was faced with James – dear, ill-fated James who had already endured so much…What horrors could have caused his terrible plight?

Though he did not seem to have recognized her, regardless, her touch garnered a reaction. No sooner had she placed a tentative hand on his quaking shoulder than his arms curled around her torso in tight desperation and he buried his face in the hollow of her neck, letting out a wail, one that was breathless and strangled, painfully controlled as he made a vain attempt to save his heart from being torn in two—for, surely, that was what was happening.

His scent drifted up to her, filling her nose with that pungent odor – filth and sweat, blood and vomit, rum, and then…the sea. Sharp. Foul. Wholly unpleasant. His beard, coarse and surely infested with lice, scraped against her, prickling her exposed neck. And as for the man himself—he would dirty her dress by being so close! He was covered in grime; his boots caked in mud, his shirt a faded tannish-yellow that could have once been white. His coat was a sorry sight. Frayed and wearing, it was kept together by but a few brittle threads, and kept at all because of the memories of a time when it had flourished. Yet it struck a nerve, she realized as she fingered what little remained of the gold brocade. For it had once been worn by her, removed from thin shoulders and draped over even thinner ones – the actions of a man who had never needed any reason other than that it was right. And she, the heartless shrew that she was, was struggling to find fault with him, digging for a reason to feel nothing, wanting to unearth even a small fragment of malice.

James was too good for the likes of her—far too good.

She shook her head and felt disgusted with herself for the first time in years. Absently, she tucked a limp strand of hair behind his ear, noting the oily texture and vowing to gently pester him about seeing to a bath – once he had regained his composure, of course.

Stunned and a little uncertain, she wrapped her arms around the helpless, shivering form, resting her cheek atop his head as she silently rocked him.

"James?"

A tiny keening sound – nearly heartbreaking – was his only response.

"James?" she tried again, feeling painfully awkward but unable to leave him by himself in such a state. "Come now, lovey, say something. Talking helps, I promise. O'course –" Annoyed at the seemingly permanent inflection, she cleared her throat. "_Of_ course, feeling nothing is better, but still…talking helps."

Tears now coming unrestrained, he shook his head, his face etched with indescribable anguish, still half-hidden in her shoulder.

"Please, darling," she prodded softly, making small circles on his back. "Tell me. What's the matter?"

A broken gasp, and just one word was uttered:

"Elizabeth…"

Ah. The little hoyden who had toyed with his heart, smashed a bottle over his head, and then chastised him for associating with whores. Oh yes. She remembered her well.

"Oh dear," she sighed worriedly, wondering with mounting resentment what the child had done to him now. "What happened?"

"Dead," he whispered with hollow disbelief.

She blinked and looked down at him, shocked.

"What?"

"_Dead_," he sobbed, finally succumbing entirely to his grief. "Elizabeth…s-she's dead…" He broke off, his voice cracking with sorrow, and again there was that soft keening, both pained and mournful. It seemed to gnash at her, tearing into the flinty exterior that she had so effortlessly erected.

Truly, it was her own fault, for gentlemen – real, honest-to-goodness gentlemen – were another one of the chinks in her metaphorical armor. Upon realizing that James was such a person, she should have known, then and there, that no good would blossom from their relationship, for she would eventually become attached to him. And sure enough, she had.

"It was my fault," he choked out, almost to himself. "It's all my fault…"

"How? How is it your fault?" Her tone was not accusatory or demanding, but soft and curious with a faint trace of concern.

Again he shook his head, appearing not to have heard her.

"I-I didn't mean for it to happen," he blurted meekly, reminding her of a child who was desperate to convince his parents that his misdeed, however egregious, had been unintentional – an accident.

He was crying harder than ever now, shoulders hunched and shuddering in pain, face wet and shining with fresh tears, words difficult to distinguish from the sobs that racked him.

"I didn't w-want this…I _swear_ it…" His voice was small and as brittle as autumn leaves.

"Shh, dear man. I know you didn't." Her fingers were light as they stroked the dark, knotted hair in what she hoped was a soothing manner, for she was eager to calm him. Albeit, while she herself rarely saw the need for such emotional moisture, she knew that, in cases such as this, it was never wise to staunch the flow of tears but to let it take its course until it had run dry.

"It should have been me," he muttered darkly, his tone taking on a new edge of self-contempt. "I should have died in-instead of her – Lord knows, I deserve it!"

"Now, lovey, don't say such things," she said matter-of-factly. "I'd be _terribly_ uncomfortable living in the home of a dead man. Besides, it isn't truly your fault—not if you never meant for it to happen. You've nothing to be sorry for."

But he wasn't listening.

"It should have been me," he whimpered again. "It should have been _me_…" A strangled little sob. "I wish it had been…"

"Oh darling," she sighed, looking down at him sadly. "I know you do."

"Oh God," he moaned weakly, slowly pulling away from her and doubling over. "I feel sick…"

Her eyes widened as she took in the sight of his unnaturally pale face. Without a second thought, she twisted around, retrieved the porcelain basin from the nightstand, and thrust it out in front of him.

Out of respect for the man, she promptly turned her gaze to the window. Her lips pursed at the sound of his retching, but, unfortunately having grown accustomed to men needing to expel the contents of their stomachs, she had no other reaction.

When he had finished, she looked around to see the basin—near empty save for a thin, watery bile. Apparently, much of the upset had been dry heaving. Worried – when was the last time he had eaten anything? – she turned to him.

Face stark white. Perspiration dotting his forehead. Eyes half-closed. Utterly drained. He teetered precariously on the spot, ready to collapse at any moment. Scooting closer, she reached out a hand just as he began to sag.

"What do you say to a bit of a lie-down, yes?"

Numbly, he inclined his head once, new tears already spilling down rough, unshaven cheeks as he attempted to stand.

Somehow, they made it to the bed, her right arm around the too-thin waist and the other upon his left shoulder to guide him. He sat on the edge of the mattress, cradling his head in his hands, hardly aware of anything outside of his immense grief as she carefully removed his boots, pistol, and a stunning new sword from his person. Then, charily, she took his hands away from his face to help him out of his coat.

She watched with irritating yet ever-growing concern as his weary eyes slid shut and he wrapped his arms around himself, rubbing them as if chilled. He drew a frail, quivering breath, whispering repeatedly:

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. She's dead. They're all dead. I'm so sorry."

His voice cracked on the last word, but the still the heartbreaking mantra persisted. Biting her lip, she silently cursed herself again for having grown so fond of the man. Certainly, her life would have been inconceivably simpler if she had not? Yet she had, and there was little to help it. So with a resigned sigh, she continued her work as quickly as she could.

The mint green coverlet was cool to the touch, the silk smooth as she turned down the bed. Quickly, she took off her own little shoes – dove gray to match her dress, with lace trim – and for a moment, she felt her mouth quirk upward at their neat prettiness. Now sitting on the exposed spread of linen sheets, she returned her sights to him.

"It's all my fault," he still insisted fervently. "This isn't what I wanted. Oh God, I'm so sorry…"

His breathing was hitched and painful as a tear slowly trickled down his aristocratic nose. It seemed to hit something within her, something usually unshakable, and she leaned purposefully forward. At her touch, he turned and clung to her as she gathered him into her arms.

"I'm sorry," he whispered again, mewling quietly against her collarbone.

"Shh… I know, sweetheart, I know."

He made no protests, simply moved with her, either unnoticing or uncaring, as she gradually eased backward and sank into the pillows.

His head came to rest upon her chest – something that perturbed her greatly. Were he of sound mind, there existed not even the slightest chance that he would allow such intimate contact. Not only that, but he was trembling all over, the poor thing. Quickly, she drew the covers over them both, tucking the blankets under his chin.

Still he grieved, now both queasy and heartsick. His supply of words had been exhausted completely, and he seemed capable of nothing beyond the occasional hushed, woeful snivel. He cried until no sound came forth, his vocal chords dry and strained and raw, worn into uselessness. Until tears poured silently down his face, mingling with the grime. Until they, too, were gone, and in their place was a stiff mask of salt and dirt. Then he set his sights, red-rimmed and glassy, on the window, watching the rain hammer against the panes but not truly seeing it. And then, at last, she saw him close burning eyes and fall into a fitful sleep.

**۞۞۞**

There came the sound of a heartbeat, and for a moment he was in Hell, cold, sickening fear clinging to him just as his clothing did, sticky with sweat. He was trapped on that island, that place of disease and misery, alone with nothing but a throbbing heart. He hadn't even a bottle of rum to drown out the excruciating sound. It echoed all around him, a never-ending tattoo that, with every disgusting pulse, seemed to announce one of his sins.

_Thud-thud_.

His poor mother, gone – not entirely, but ultimately because of his selfish mistakes.

_Thud-thud_.

His first encounter with pirates. That fateful day when he had failed so many – and he had only been fourteen at the time.

_Thud-thud_.

More recent memories came rushing at him. Every man he had ever fought with, each sailor who had served and died under his command.

_Thud-thud_.

Elizabeth falling from the battlement and being unable to save her. He could only watch as she was swallowed up by the churning sea.

_Thud-thud_.

Crossing blades with an enemy who could not be killed and watching as his brave marines fought (and fell) alongside him.

_Thud-thud_.

The looming threat of a court-martial.

_Thud-thud_.

The hurricane.

_Thud-thud_.

The loss of so many.

_Thud-thud_.

Stealing the heart and running off—a faux sacrifice.

_Thud-thud_.

And he was now alone on that macabre island where sickness had ravaged the land, taking all who lived there. The priest, he remembered, the only survivor, had had the gruesome task of laying all of the dead to rest. He had gone mad, Elizabeth had said, and had taken his own life.

"_Better mad with the rest of the world than sane alone_."

How true that was. But could loneliness not drive one to insanity?

_Thud-thud_. _Thud-thud_.

Alone. Alone.

The heart was still beating…

But no. No, that wasn't right. He was no longer on that island—he couldn't be. That place bore only hopelessness and despair. Yet he felt…warm. Comforted. A sleepy haze of pink hung about his head. He knew this sensation—the feeling of waking from a deep sleep of bizarre dreams, being uncertain of where he was but having a sense of familiarity.

He was wrapped in something soft, something he knew.

He scowled, not wanting to open his eyes just yet. With waking came more memories of things unspeakable—horrors that he cared not to remember. Not yet. Not when everything was this peaceful. Not when he felt so safe. Stubbornly, he squeezed his eyes shut even tighter, burrowing into the soft thing.

From up above, it seemed, someone had noticed his movement, for a pacifying hand began to rub his back, the space between his shoulder blades, soothing, calming… And at that moment he realized that the heartbeat was not that of a cruel and spiteful ghost captain, but that of _another_, for the tortured palpitations of Davy Jones could never be so warm.

And they certainly wouldn't bear the sweetly sharp, creamy scent of oranges. It, too, was familiar somehow, and rather pleasant. Breathing deeply, he wet his lips.

But immediately he grimaced at the tang that coated his tongue and then, all at once, his entire mouth. It was bitter, acidic, almost as if… He frowned in confusion. …had he been sick?

For the first time since waking he took notice of the well-known hollow ache in his belly, the sour burn at the back of his throat, and dimly recalled feeling vomitously ill when someone had set a basin before him just in time to prevent him from ruining his bedroom carpet. And at once he was hit by a storm of haunting memories: the heart of Davy Jones, Lord Becket, Elizabeth…dead.

His breath caught in his throat, his eyes burned, but he swallowed the lump of guilt and despair, forcing his thoughts forward.

Lord Beckett had promoted him to Admiral, his sword and his life had been returned, and he should have been pleased but all he had been able to feel was unbearable sorrow. He had then gone home. The servants had stared, but only part of him had acknowledged their scrutiny, the rest intent on retreating to his bedroom, hiding from accusing glares, and locking himself up with nothing but his regrets. Only to be greeted by his mistress…

His eyes flew open.

Tentatively, he looked up.

And there she sat, almost regal as she steadily held his gaze. She was…striking, in a way. Different with a wan, oval face and sharp cheekbones—all made softer with powder and small, pale patches of rouge. Her nose was slightly long, though not distractingly so due to its pointed shape. Large and dark, her eyes were keen, alert, searching…as if knowing answers yet hungry for them herself. All in all, she as not an unattractive sort of woman, though he imagined that she might be prettier if she smiled. Or perhaps if she were better fed? After all, she was a terribly skinny little thing—maybe that was why her eyes seemed so over-large. Curious, he glanced back up at them again, only to feel his own eyes go wide several seconds later as he was overcome with shocked recognition.

Gone was the patchy, sweat-damp skin; the never-ending locks of greasy, frizzing curls; the tattered dress of mossy green; the kohl-ringed eyes; the red lips stretched in a humorless sneer… All that remained were the eyebrows, which he had once thought of as effortlessly shapely, the single attractive aspect amid a mess of unsightly features. Though he had never quite known how to tell her this; it seemed an odd sort of complement to give.

Too startled to move, despite being in such an indecent position, he stared up at her in bewilderment and awe.

"_Jou-Jou?_"

With a sad little smile she gave a weary sigh, reaching out to brush back a few strands of his hair.

Unthinking, he caught the spindly fingers in his own. How soft they were against the roughness of his own calloused palm! And so clean and white—as fair and flawless as porcelain—with long, unbroken nails that had been filed until given a rounded, almond shape. Beautiful and delicate, her hands were utterly unfamiliar. However, he noted, with a wry smile, they were still just as small as he remembered.

**۞۞۞**

"How… I don't understand."

"Cutler," she replied simply. "Excuse me—_Lord Beckett_."

"Beckett…?" His brow knit in confusion.

"Yes. You see, Mr. Mercer, his secretary –"

He snorted. "Personal assassin is a more accurate description."

She pursed her lips at the interruption, but also suppressed a smirk. "Apparently, he had been watching you for some time."

He nodded. "He came to me with an offer that Lord Beckett knew I would never refuse."

"A full pardon and a chance to start your life anew," she recited, sounding all at once slightly bored, a little mocking, and even a bit dreamy. "I told you that I didn't blame you for leaving me, lovey, especially if that's what awaited you. Certainly, I'd have taken such an offer, if given the chance—well, as you can plainly see, I _did_."

"Mercer approached _you?_" he sputtered, incredulous.

"Well, it's not so shocking when one considers it. The man had so often seen us together, he simply concluded that we were…_together_." She suddenly tipped her head to the side, eyeing him inquisitively. "They always think that, don't they?"

"Always."

"Hm. Well. Moving on, he informed dear Cutler of our little rendezvous and Cutler _immediately_ had the brilliant idea to hire me as your 'kept woman'—a homecoming gift, in a way, and one that's _very_ nicely wrapped, don't you agree?"

"_Lovely_," he drawled, meeting her sarcasm. "You were saying…?"

"I believe he saw it as a way of earning your trust," she explained. "Rescue your lady love from the streets, clean her up, and allow her to live a better life. With you. What a kind fellow he is! Not at all the sort of man who would use extortion to further his own needs!"

"Or plant a woman in a potential enemy's home and have her claim to be a mistress when she is, in fact, an informant?" His eyes narrowed, demanding and skeptical.

Despite herself, she felt a smile tug at the corners of her mouth. Clever boy. He was far too intelligent to miss her evasion and her deceit. Of course, she should not have told such a thinly veiled lie had she not, mere hours ago, watched as the man's heart was broken in two. Before, when Cutler had first instructed her to watch James, she had been rather relieved, even confident. Surely, this was a task that she could easily carry out. All that was needed was a large bottle of rum and some careful inveigling on her part and James would begin to talk. She needn't even crawl into bed with him.

Yes, it was selfish of her to so willingly agree to betray a person, however, it was highly unlikely that James would indulge in any traitorous activities. And besides that, she needed to take care of herself and herself alone, for she refused to return to life on the streets.

But now…now she knew that she could not use him in such a way, she could not lie to him, could not betray him. It was too cruel a thing to do after she had seen his tears. It was strange, this unnatural sympathy, and jarring. And these inexplicable feelings of tenderness toward him were extremely frustrating. Was it all due to the fact that she had actually missed him after he had departed from Tortuga? That, without him, the island had seemed to grow ten times more hellish overnight? That she had been devastated by a queer emptiness and had felt truly lonely for the first time in ages? And that, upon hearing that Cutler say that she might be reunited with her friend—yes, her friend—she had felt a tiny flame of excitement spark to life within her? Whatever the reason (and she suspected that it was a combination of all four), she knew that her plan now required several alterations.

"It was rather clever of him, really," she said at last. "He knew that there was less of a chance that you would trust a strange woman as opposed to me, whom he knows you've often associated with. And jezebels are notoriously cold-hearted." She gave a thin, bitter smirk. "They can charm a man senseless, make him believe he's the one they see in their dreams…then, quick as they can, they'll sell him out for a few shiny coins."

But her features softened and there was a barely-detectable note of sincerity in her next words. "It's only unfortunate for me that you think with your head, isn't it?"

He scowled up at her, making it clear that he disapproved of this remark.

"So Mr. Mercer came to you with the offer of a better life in return for your services as an informant." There were a dozen questions lit in his eyes. "There's more to it than that, isn't there? Lord Beckett…" He hesitated. "He isn't having you…work for other men as well, is he?"

"No. I am all yours," she assured him pleasantly.

"Delightful. What an utter _relief_ it is to hear that."

"I knew it would be." Though, in truth, she could have sworn that there had been just the faintest trace on honesty in his tone.

He sighed, rubbing his eyes wearily.

"So what's it to be, then? You shall lie in wait until I commit a vaguely treacherous act, then whisk off to Beckett to confess everything?"

"That _is_ more or less Cutler's plan, yes. Although…" She gave him a pert grin. "If I do say so myself, lying is one among many of my talents."

"Of that I am well aware," he said curtly. "You certainly had _me_ fooled."

"Dear James, what ever do you mean?" she asked with blatantly false innocence.

"Spare me," he scoffed. "In little more than a fortnight you have become mannerly and learned proper English?" He shook his head. "You cannot possibly expect me to believe that you were ever _really_ a prostitute. Not after I've seen you like…_this_." He nodded sharply to her spotless appearance. "You were Beckett's spy all along."

His contempt she could allow—he had just lost the woman he loved—but still she could not keep the darkness out of her tone. "I can assure you, _darling_, that I was."

"But not all your life," he pressed further.

"Of course not. I certainly didn't leave my mother's womb ready to solicit men."

"_Jou-Jou!_"

"Ah," she said at the frustrated outcry. "Now I see. Perhaps I should explain…?"

"That would not go unappreciated," he sneered caustically.

"Very well."

She breathed deeply, gathering her thoughts and preparing an explanation that she was not ready to give.

"This," she began, "will be the last name I give you, I promise."

Anger evaporating, his eyebrows rose as he blinked in even greater confusion and she offered him a ghost of a smile.

"If I may introduce myself? I am—" She halted, words snagging in her throat—the name had not been uttered in years. "…Lady Julia Louise Hainsworth, née Everdeane, and I am the dowager Marchioness of Salisbury."

Inquiringly, she cocked her head.

"Perhaps you have heard of me?"

**۞۞۞**

**Notes**

…it was all she could do to keep from…darting from the room – this is almost reminiscent of Chapter VI of _Bells_ when James knows he should get out of Tortuga but is anchored down because he feels like he's "abandoning his ship." Julia's initial reaction is to leave, but her mind (and her heart) convince her to stay.

Wholly unpleasant./…rather pleasant. – just wanted to point this out, since I didn't think it was as apparent as the paralleled "bliss moment" in Chapter III of _Bells_.

…wondering with mounting resentment what the child had done to him now – you'll see that her dislike for Elizabeth just increases as the story progresses. It's like if the girl's name is so much as mentioned, her amount of loathing for her goes up one notch. She's only ever met Elizabeth once, if you recall, but even before that encounter she'd decided that she didn't like her.

…her own little shoes – you will come to learn that Julia has an incredible fondness for shoes. I am still trying to determine whether this is me unconsciously making things symbolic again, or if it is merely a quirk that I thought she would have since I have yet to find any symbolic properties as far as shoes are concerned.

His poor mother – if you recall, the death of James's mother is mentioned, however fleetingly, in _Bells_ as well. It's one of those events that he wishes never happened and thus forces to the back of his mind because he either is unwilling to handle the emotional strain or can't handle it (I'm thinking it's a combination of both – he _can't_ handle it because he's gone so long without handling it). I believe I mentioned in one of the notes at the end of _Bells_ that this would, in time, be explained. And rest assured, it will be. Just not at this particular moment.

His first encounter with pirates – yet another moment in James's life that will be explained in due time. This, too, was brought up in _Bells_. However, it was rather hidden, as you will eventually come to see.

"_Better mad with the rest of the world than sane alone_." – for those who haven't heard, this is from a scene that was in the original DMC script—one that was filmed, actually. I saw a clip of it on YouTube and decided to bring it up in this story since it was, obviously, not included in the movie. Disney really needs to fire their editing staff. And hire a new set of writers. They need to do a lot of things, actually, but I digress.

…she had actually missed him… – the evolution of her feelings for James can almost be pinpointed using significant moments in her life. For instance, in _Bells_, after James saves her life for no reason and wants nothing in return (something she has trouble comprehending), then morning after, when she sees how upset he is over sleeping with a prostitute and then blaming her for it, she realizes that he's a decent person. Four months later, after he goes off to find and kill Captain Jack, she goes after him because she now knows that she's grown fond of him. When he's about to leave Tortuga for good, it occurs to her that she'll miss him, hence why she kisses him goodbye. Once James is gone, she is struck by how lonely she feels and suddenly knows that she truly regarded James as a friend. And now, when they've been reunited, she makes the (in her mind) terrible realization that her affection for him is deep enough that it hinders her ability to use him, which, it is important to note, would not have been a problem otherwise. Of course, there is no love at this point, at least not in the romantic sense. Perhaps _slightly_ in the platonic sense, though I hesitate to call it love. It's more of a growing fondness, really. There are more emotionally evolutionary moments like this to come, and I'll be sure to make a note of them. :)

"…you think with your head…" – his _main_ head, of course—and I was so close to adding that to this line. Forgive me. I was watching _Coupling_ while working on this scene.

"Delightful. What an utter _relief_ it is to hear that." – I was hesitant to keep this line as it is, because originally I'd intended for James to hastily add "My tone is meant for Beckett, not you." Because, really, his sarcasm mainly _does_ stem from scorn for Beckett and disgust at thinking that the man assumed that he, James, would appreciate a mistress. Though, as is indicated by James's next line, he _is_ feeling slightly resentful of Jou-Jou at the moment, though this is mostly born out of mistrust for her, lingering grief for the loss of Elizabeth, and overall confusion for the entire situation. He has no idea what's going on anymore, the poor guy, and it's making him even more messed up than he already is.

"In a fortnight you have become mannerly and learned proper English?" – notice how, at the end of the first chapter and all throughout this one, she doesn't bear much of a trace of her Tortugan accent. That isn't to say that she hasn't lost it completely, since, as you'll later learn, she's had to use it for some time. Example: the first scene in this chapter, when she's trying to comfort James and says, "O'course" and then abruptly corrects herself by saying "_Of_ course."

"…Lady Julia Louise Hainsworth, née Everdeane, and I am the dowager Marchioness of Salisbury." – first, when I wrote this line I deliberately gave her a lengthy name (i. e., since "Julia Hainsworth" isn't really that long, I had her give her full title, mention being a dowager, and even say her middle and maiden names). I did this because I wanted it to have an impact on both the readers and particularly James. To suddenly learn that the woman he has known simply as "Jou-Jou" comes with a very long title would have a mind-blowing effect on him. Second, very briefly, in relation to the previous note, I'd like to mention that while writing her lines in _Bells_ I tried to insert very small traces of a pedantic upbringing, proper schooling, instruction in language and grammar, etc. For example, certain words that she uses like "machinations" or her extreme neatness. I didn't want to make it glaringly obvious—I didn't even want to make it slightly _apparent_, really. However, I also didn't want it to seem like, as if on a whim, I decided to have her turn out to really be a lady purely for shock value, especially when I'd always intended for her to be a marchioness (I've been calling her Julia in my head now before I ever came up with Jou-Jou, and it's a bit of a relief to now be able to refer to her as such). My intent, really, was for you, the readers, to be able to reread _Bells_ or recall moments from that story that might have seemed small but now serve as evidence to support who the character truly is. And on that note: Third, who she really is. Now, perhaps, it's clear why I was worried about the reaction to the direction I'd taken the character in. Honestly, I've spent months trying to think of some other way for Julia and James to end up in Port Royal together, but none of them worked well with the rest of the plot and this idea was just so damn appealing. A lot of the reason I wanted to give Jou-Jou (now, Julia) a proper upbringing was because, if I hadn't and had just kept her a prostitute with little education and no sense of propriety, it would have added unnecessary conflict and, I think, ultimately taken away from the story. We would have had to read about her constant struggle to adapt, how the people of Port Royal look down at her, and, of course, there would be plenty of corset jokes. Which. I. _Hate_. To me, not only is there too much going on, but also the story of a prostitute in polite society sounds even more Mary-Sue-ish than having her turn out to be a marchioness. That, and it's too much of a rip-off of _My Fair Lady_, and we all know that James is not sexist enough to play Professor Higgins (he's really more of a Freddie in that he's the poor jilted suitor who got his hopes up for nothing, though unlike Freddie I think that he was always a little suspicious of Lizzie's intentions, no matter how much he wanted to believe that they were good). And even if he were, I've also noticed a trend toward men who have fallen from grace, but a severe lack of _women_ who have suffered a similar fate. Not trying to sound like a preaching feminist, but I've always been inexplicably intrigued by the idea of a well-to-do woman suddenly being brought low, _especially_ (as you'll soon see with Julia) by her _own_ mistakes.

**A Simple Request/Reminder from the Author**

I would not like to have to take this story down and rewrite it again as I have done with my works in the past. Therefore, I am asking all of my readers to alert me at once if anything is historically inaccurate, anyone is out of character, words are improperly spelled, grammar isn't up to par, or if anything seems Mary-Sue-ish even in the slightest. Remember kids, praise may be nice and make the author feel good about him or herself, but constructive criticism is more helpful in the long run. Politeness is preferred, though you may be harsh if you like – sometimes a little severity is the only way to get the message across. But also take note that by merely writing "Dear God, you suck big time. You suck. Your characters suck. Your story sucks. My eyes are bleeding from how much it sucks. Don't write anymore, I beg you" you aren't helping me anymore than people who say "OMG! U rool i wanna mary u!!!11 this is the new OTP!!!!1one1!" are. So please, help me out, but be kind about it if you can. _Merci_ in advance!


	4. A Fine Woman

**Chapter III**

_**A Fine Woman**_

"_Hark, news, O envy; thou shalt hear descried  
My Julia; who as yet was ne'er envied._"

–"Elegy XIV: Julia", John Donne

۞۞۞

The exact moment he was certain that his situation could not possibly become any more bizarre than it already was, it saw fit to do just that. The queer truth of the matter was that he _had _heard of her. It had been several years, but nonetheless, the name was distantly familiar.

If he recalled correctly, Lord Philip Hainsworth, Marquess of Salisbury, and his wife had set sail for the Caribbean, the Marquess having just purchased an expansive plantation in Port Royal. They hadn't been very far from their destination when pirates had attacked their ship, _the Merriweather_. When the vessel had finally limped into Port Royal's harbor, he and his marines had found that nearly all of the noble couple's possessions had been pillaged; that, due to the shock of the event, the Marquess was dead of heart failure; and that the Marchioness had disappeared entirely. His immediate assumption was that the pirates had taken her as well, but the crew of _the Merriweather_ had assured him that that was not the case. With their ship badly in need of repair, the sailors had had no choice but to dock in the next port of call—Tortuga. It was at this time that the now-widowed Marchioness had slipped off of the ship with word to no one, save for her maid, and had allowed herself to be taken by the town.

Quite literally, it seemed, if she and his strumpet were indeed one in the same. But how could that be? Despite the crew's account, he had insisted upon searching for the missing woman, thinking that perhaps, in her grief at her husband's passing, she had not been herself, had not been thinking clearly. He had kept up the search for as long as possible, but eventually he had had to bring it to a halt. It had been difficult to give the order to stop looking, but logic, as always, had insisted and finally he had had to admit the truth: They were not going to find her. It mattered not that he had never met the woman; he had still felt the same way that he always did whenever there were casualties in battle or if one of the citizens of Port Royal was caught in the crossfire. That sense of deep remorse, of anger at his inability to protect. No, he had never made Lady Hainsworth's acquaintance, yet he somehow he had known that he had failed her.

But what if he had met her? An absurd thought—one that he immediately dashed.

But still…had stranger things not happened?

Yes. But no, this could not possibly be. Though he had never met her—he was certain that he hadn't—he imagined that the missing Marchioness would have been a proper, educated, soft-spoken lady of society. Not _Jou-Jou_, this harpy who was uncouth, disrespectful, garrulous…

Yet as soon as he thought this, he knew it to be untrue—or, at least, an unfair exaggeration of her character. The woman loathed her life of prostitution and only pursued it because the alternatives were quite limited. If a woman lacked the skills necessary to find suitable work, then her only options were to marry well (an unlikely prospect on Tortuga), sell herself, or starve. Once he had come to know Jou-Jou better, he had realized that, while her choice of words may have often been poor, her actual remarks weren't always scandalous. One had to block out what she _said_ and listen to what she _meant_. In fact (excluding customers as she was always sweet with them), she was only ever rude with a person unless _they_ first treated _her _rudely. And he could not call her disrespectful, for it was clear that, for reasons he still failed to conceive, she held a rather high opinion of him.

_That does not mean that she is of noble blood, you fool_. Yet as he thought this, he began to recall everything, all of the strange little quirks that he had attributed to her. Her neatness, her love of finery, her abstinence from drinking, her occasional eloquence… And suddenly, he was struck by a memory, one of the two of them, sitting side by side on a narrow bed in a dreary room at an inn known as _the Ring O'Bells_.

"_I'm terribly sorry,_" he had said. "_In those moments…I was not myself._"

"_Oh, lovey,_" she had murmured in a wistful sort of way that he imagined was meant to sound offhanded. And she had met his eyes with sympathy—or was it empathy?—when she had asked, "_Whoever is?_"

"'Whoever is,'" he echoed dimly, slowly taking in the sight of her, his eyes aglow with new realization. "You once said that to me, and I now wonder if, perhaps, there was a deeper meaning behind those words?"

She shrugged indifferently, either not remembering or pretending not to know what he spoke of.

"While the evidence you've presented _is _substantial," he admitted, "I find myself unsure of what to think. Forgive me if I do not feel entirely inclined to believeyou."

"I don't expect you to, dearest," she replied, accepting this with ease. "Though, if it's proof you're in need of, you could always speak with Cutler."

"Beckett."

"Yes. We're old friends, you see." She gave a light laugh that was bereft of humor. "Imagine his shock when, in lieu of a _prostitute_…he discovered that he had employed a missing marchioness—not to mention the woman he once considered for marriage."

"_Marriage?_" he exclaimed, pushing himself up to look into her eyes, all the while gaping, openly shocked.

"Ah, yes," she quietly confirmed. "Perhaps I should explain that as well?"

"I imagine that it couldn't hurt, no," he sighed with weary sarcasm as he dropped his head back down, suddenly feeling dizzy and exhausted. Nothing was certain anymore. He no longer knew what to believe, who to trust, or even how to properly conduct himself. It was as if he had become his own tattered naval jacket and was slowly coming apart at the seams, far beyond repair.

Concerned fingers brushed his shoulder and he stiffened, quickly shifting so that he was lying beside her. She drew her hands back sharply, clasping them firmly in her lap, looking somewhat…embarrassed, as if silently scolding herself for not knowing better than to try and touch him. At once he grimaced, ashamed at his own foolish behavior. Had he not learned months ago that not _all _of her gestures were meant to be taken as invitations? That sexual connotations were not attached to _every _word she uttered, every move she made?

She was a rather tactile thing, he had once observed, and not all of her touches (at least the ones meant for him) were entirely flirtatious. More friendly, to be honest, even if some of them breached decorum. And she was always careful around him, always sure not to do anything too suggestive, too lewd. She was well acquainted with his sense of propriety and overall respect for women, and she in turn respected this. Once when he had been hideously inebriated, he had even fancied that she even had some small amount of liking for him. Absurd, of course, for she seemed to have little care for anyone, yet it was a comforting thought, however fleeting as it had only lasted a moment before being savagely devoured by bitterness and cynicism.

Still, excluding customers, she was kinder to him than she was to most. Sometimes, whenever she wanted to make it clear that what she had to say was to be taken seriously, she would perhaps place her hand over his and her dark eyes would become so intent that he often become uncomfortable. Sometimes it was as if she had been trying to see right through him; at other times it was like she was asking for something he could not give. Normally, whenever she would come up behind him, she would trail her fingers across his shoulder, quietly announcing her presence. The first time she had done this he had mistakenly thought that it was a pirate who had seen the ruined naval jacket and had wanted to start a fight. Rum acting as fuel to his anger, more than willing to engage in a brawl, he had whirled around, fists raised…and found himself staring directly into her eyes. Gasping, he had dropped his arms at once, tumbling over his words as he hasted to apologize. She had shaken her head, seemingly unaffected though he had seen her tense just moments before, and calmly said, "Honestly, lovey, I know y'don't like me, but _really_. I think ye're overreactin' a bit." Her tone had been light, but that hadn't made him feel any less guilty.

He looked up at her now and mumbled a feeble apology, saying that it wasn't her fault, truly; that he was being ridiculous. She watched him silently for a moment, face blank, though her eyes were searching. Then, quite abruptly, she said:

"When I was young, my sole purpose was to marry, and to marry well."

۞۞۞

"It's a goal that is shared by most young women, I imagine. However, I set my standards considerably higher. I ended a long-standing courtship with a wealthy merchant's son in order to ensnare the affections of one Cutler Beckett. Unfortunately, at the same time, I had also caught the eye of Philip Hainsworth III, son of the Marquess of Salisbury." She paused, thoughtfully fingering the lacey sleeve of her gown. "I saw no reason not to court them both."

"A dangerous game," he pointed out. "You could have easily garnered a sordid reputation."

"A fact that I was not unaware of." She pursed her lips. "Yet both courtships were quite harmless. I held no truly deep feelings of affection for either Cutler or Philip, and I knew that they felt likewise. And my parents approved of what I was doing, of course. I think they saw it as something of an auction, in a way, and they wanted their eldest daughter to go to the highest bidder, especially when they had six other children to consider—three of whom were girls." She looked at him sharply. "So you see, despite what you may think of me, James, I am not an ignorant woman."

"I know you're not," he protested, looking frustrated. Then, suddenly exasperated, he sighed. "I know…"

"Oh," she said quietly, feeling embarrassed and quite unsure of what to make of this, only knowing that he wasn't supposed to see her as having any amount of intelligence. Clearing her throat, she decided it was best if she simply continued.

"Love was never an issue in either courtship. Cutler was only interested in my dowry, and I the fortune he stood to inherit, though we got along _extremely _well. He was a friend of my two older brothers, you see, and so we knew each other as children."

She tilted her head thoughtfully.

"We are very much alike, Cutler and I. We both enjoy the finer things in life; we're both blunt. We are both rather accepting of another person's beliefs, ethnicity, or style of life—particularly if associating with said person will, in some way, benefit us. And, of course, we both put ourselves before anyone else."

"At least _you _are a fraction more trustworthy than he is," he muttered darkly.

"Am I?" she queried, all the while despairing over the fact that he found her even slightly above suspicion. Surely he knew better than to trust a whore. "I kept my identity from you for _four months_, James," she reminded him.

He gave a short, tired laugh and dropped a hand over his eyes. "True… But…did I not do the same to you?" he asked, giving her a questioning look.

"We both have our reasons for not wanting to be found," she concurred, nodding. "I suppose that I won't hold it against you, so long as you promise to do the same for me."

"Agreed. There is so much to resent me for, I doubt that one falsehood will be missed."

"Darling," she interrupted, "you may have all the time you like for personal fustigation, but right now I much fancy sparing a moment for my _own _self-pity, if you don't mind."

"Do not speak so lightly," he warned. "You do not know the sins I have committed—"

"But I am certain that I will come to know them _in good time_," she intervened coolly, resisting the impulse to roll her eyes yet at the same time saddened by his obvious hatred for himself.

He gave her a strange look, one that she would call a mixture of pleading and utter bewilderment, but said no more.

"As I was saying," she began again, "Eventually, Cutler proposed. However, I, knowing that it would forever bother me not to know if I ever had a chance of becoming a marchioness, told him that he would have to await my answer, for I first needed time to contemplate it."

"_I am _flattered_, darling—immensely so. Unfortunately, I cannot give you an answer just yet. I must have time to think on it._"

"_I wouldn't have imagined that a decision such as this would require much thought, Julia._"

She had smiled. "_I'm afraid that I'm like you, Cutler, in that I am a strong believer in thoughts preceding actions._"

"Then, just two days later, Philip asked for my hand."

"And you accepted," he guessed.

"Of course," she replied. "One simply does not turn down a future marquess." Though she often wondered if she had really intended to reject Cutler when Philip asked for her hand, of if she had merely wanted to see if she _could _have been a marchioness. She would never know for certain, however, for when she had informed Philip of Cutler's offer of marriage, the poor man had all but thrown himself at her feet. Dropping to his knees and clasping her hands tightly in his own, he had looped up at her in askance and begun to beg.

"_I cannot explain now. I can only tell you that it is of the direst importance that you marry me. Please, you are the only woman that I trust. Please…_Please_, Julie…_"

It had been such a pitiful display that she hadn't the heart to say no. Besides, he had been destined to be a _marquess_—to inherit a fortune, a high position in society. He was intelligent, polite, and kind—not to mention handsome with delicate features, soft gray eyes, a small and pretty mouth, and dark hair. Certainly, she would have been mad to refuse him.

"Cutler took it well," she went on. "He would have thrown me over, had a wealthier heiress happened to look his way, whether he was engaged to me or not. We both knew this, and so there was never any love lost between us."

_Not that there was any ever love to begin with_, she thought with faint relief. Love was a wonderful thing, she imagined, but not necessarily a wise thing to strive for.

"You should consider yourself fortunate," he remarked.

She merely shrugged, gazing absently out the window at the fierce downpour.

"He married a friend of mine, Lillian Hapshire," she informed him. "Lady Beckett now, I imagine she's called. A woman with a much larger dowry than myself, one that has contribute greatly to Cutler's rise to success in the East India Trading Company.

"In any case, she's a far better match for him than I was," she finished airily.

He concentrated on his suddenly very interesting thumbnail, as if unsure as to how he should reply to that. Maybe before he would have responded with a light, sarcastic "More agreeable than you, perhaps?" But not now. Now she put him on edge, for now she was a lady. It was good, however, that he was restraining himself from being too amicable with her. Or so she told herself, at least.

"So Lord Beckett is not aiding you solely because you were his once affianced?" he finally asked.

"No, I rather doubt that that has much to do with it at all," she admitted. _Though being friends with the man certainly doesn't mar my position._ "The fact that I know _you _is of far more importance to him."

"So you said." He fell silent, looking lost in thought, as if debating which issue to address amidst a slew of choices. She waited patiently for him to make his decision, willing to divulge as much information as she felt was necessary. After all, there was no need to tell him more than what he absolutely needed to know for clarity's sake.

"May I ask why, when your ship—"

"_The Merriweather?_" she asked.

"Yes. When it docked in Tortuga…why did you not stay aboard? Surely you could have lived in Port Royal and run your plantation, if not entirely by yourself, then with the aid of someone experienced. So why did you choose not to and instead assume a life of squalor and depravity on _Tortuga?_ Were you in shock? Mourning?"

"No," she cut in smoothly, "I was in debt. Up to my ears in it, in fact."

The question of 'how' was on the tip of his tongue, she could see it, but he was torn between curiosity and the impropriety of inquiring about her monetary woes. Thus, he settled for a mere "Oh" of resigned bewilderment.

The poor luv—she took pity on him: "I have a weakness for…material possessions, you see. I simply…adore…clothing. Furniture. Artwork. Jewelry, shoes—especially shoes." She smiled, looking down at her feet again. "Philip's mother had died in childbirth and, only three years after we were married, his father finally left us to be with her. Philip was stricken, of course, and **rot** with grief, but he was a marquess, now, and suddenly quite wealthy."

"And you now had your money and your title, and you thrived," he concluded, though she noticed that there was no accusation in his tone. It was simply…flat.

"We both went a little mad with our spending," she said, and her tone was sheepish, only slightly defensive. She could see his disgust and that he now thought her a conniving coquette. Understandable. But while she didn't want him to think too highly of her, she still felt the need to point out the fact that she wasn't alone in her massive expenditures. Philip had always had an eye (and a frivolous need) for finery; not to mention the fact that he had always held a profound appreciation for her agreement to wed him, or the fact that he had always felt guilty for leading her uninformed into what he knew would be a cold, fruitless marriage. To express his gratitude, assuage his troubled conscience, and satisfy his own material needs, Philip hadn't been hesitant to give her money—many times, he had even thrown it at her. And she, lonely and unhappy in her marriage, saw no reason not to accept his gifts. Moreover, she agreed, almost wholeheartedly, that he did, indeed, owe it to her. What's more, lonely and unhappy though she was, she was still a sensible young woman, one who logic informed would be mad to reject any endowments that her husband offered. And even if, to make use of that tired cliché, money could not buy her true happiness, it could at least provide just a little joy, if only for a while. For a brief moment, that dark void inside of her where there should have been love was filled.

So she shopped and Philip purchased, and Philip gave and she accepted. In time, she grew to care for him, as a friend at least. She even thought that she could say that he felt the same for her, though he would never take her to bed and officially make her his wife. The fault was neither hers nor his, though she supposed that she could have blamed him if she had truly wanted to. Philip simply wasn't attracted to her—at all. And that made it very difficult for him to achieve success in the bedroom. In turn, his lack of interest made her rather unenthusiastic, though she was very good at playing pretend. Still, in the end, it was all for nothing. And the following morning, when she awoke before he did, she would go to town again and return home with three or four new dresses and several new pairs of shoes, and she would feel, at least for a day or so, fulfilled.

"Our debts increased," she said quietly, "without our noticing. Oh, we saw them in the beginning and made certain that they were paid off, but…it wasn't terribly long before we were indebted again.

"It was during our eighth year of marriage that Philip realized that our problems were quite severe, and so he decided that the best way to remedy them was to make his father's fruit plantation in the Caribbean, which had only been a small thing at the time, and transform it into a flourishing business that sold not only bananas and oranges, but also sugar. This would require purchasing more land, more workers, proper equipment, and sugar cane obviously, but the idea was that it would all eventually pay for itself. Provided that the business was a success.

"For some reason, rather than hiring an agent to carry out the task like any _sensible _person would have done, Philip thought it best if he and I journeyed to the Caribbean to investigate our plantation and see what needed to be done." She bowed her head and added quietly, "I rather think he simply wanted to escape from the awful rumors about us that were beginning to circulate.

"Then, I imagine you know the rest or can figure it out, at least. Our ship was attacked by pirates who took practically everything of value that we possessed. Philip had always suffered from a weak heart; the excitement of it all was clearly too much of a strain on him. He was dead less than two days later. I realized that not only was I penniless but that I now no longer had even my husband and therefore _no _means of supporting myself. I was alone. Debt collectors would soon be making demands and I had nothing with which to trade, nothing to satisfy them. So…I left. _The Merriweather _docked in Tortuga and I simply…left."

He nodded distantly, staring down at his hands, taking all of this in, and looking—if it was possible—guilty. If he had any fondness for her—or, more likely, if she was right and he really was a ninny who felt responsible for the ill fortunes of anyone he so much as made eye contact with—then, perhaps, she could have understood it if he was upset. But self-condemnation?

"James," she began to say, but he cut in.

"For what it's worth," he said softly, "I'm sorry."

She gaped at him. "Whatever for?"

"Seven years ago, when your ship was attacked, I was a captain then," he hastened to explain, his voice painful with unnecessary apologies. "Granted, at that time I had yet to become the scourge of piracy, but regardless I was well on my way." He blinked rapidly—something that he did a lot when nervous or contrite, she had noticed, and his gaze continuously darted from his hands to her face. "If I had known that those pirates were in the area, or if I had sent one of our ships to meet yours once you had entered into our territory—"

"Then Port Royal would have been one less ship of the fleet if pirates had decided to attack the town," she informed him matter-of-factly.

He shook his head, as if determined to prove that he was the cause of her tribulations.

"At the very least, I could have combed Tortuga more thoroughly, sent more men into the town, or continued the search for another week—"

"Now, lovey," she warned, "don't you dare go blaming yourself for what happened to me. "

"Very well," he agreed, "perhaps I shouldn't take all the credit, but I cannot help but feel responsible. I should have been able to prevent it, or, at least, shortened the amount of time you were forced to spend…_there_."

"On Tortuga, working as a prostitute?" Quietly, she finished what he could not bring himself to say. The words hung in the air, as if taunting them with their mere existence which both were unable to deny.

"If I may ask," he spoke up hesitantly, "without sounding too crude and insensitive, why prostitution? Was there nowhere else to turn? Were there no alternatives in sight?"

"What would I have done, James?" she asked lightly, though the challenge was there, now suspended in mid air with the words 'Tortuga' and 'prostitute.' "Become a washerwoman? A seamstress? Gone to work in a bakery?" She sniffed indignantly. "Darling, I'm a _marchioness_—a _lady_. I know how to dance, sing, play the pianoforte, embroider, mind my manners, smile, and look pretty. All perfectly suitable for a nobleman's wife, but what of a deceased marquess's insolvent widow?

"That's not to say that I _didn't_ try finding other work first, mind you," she added bitterly.

"_I've no use fer any o'that fancy stitchery,_" the woman, Mrs. Shelton – graying, callous, straightforward—had warned her when she had come to the tailor's shop seeking work. The seamstress had taken one look at her stylish (if now slightly dirty) gown and immediately concluded that she was of a much different ilk than herself and her fellow reprobates. Hearing her talk of her noteworthy embroidering abilities only confirmed this. "_What I need's a girl t'tidy up this place._" She had glanced around the cramped, fusty store with dislike. "_So unless ye're good with a mop an' bucket, y'can take yer airs an' graces and be gone with you b'cause ye're of no use t'me._"

But she had implored the woman, insisting that she was capable of such menial tasks when, truly, she knew next to nothing about them. From the start, Mrs. Shelton had known that she would fail; yet she had hired her nonetheless—though she knew that this was hardly because the woman had thought that she at least deserved a chance. No, if anything, the bitter seamstress had simply wanted to amuse herself by watching what was clearly once a hoity-toity, rich girl make a fool of herself as she scrubbed the floors on her hands and knees or tried in vain to clean a window that was too high to reach even with the aid of a stool.

It had been nearly a week of working for Mrs. Shelton when it had all become too much and she had finally succumb to the grief of her husband's death and the utter hopelessness of her situation. She remembered that she had been bent over cleaning when it had happened. The lacey sleeve of her once beautiful gown had caught on a loose nail in one of the floorboards. So intent on finishing her work, she hadn't noticed until the harsh, rasping sound of tearing fabric and ripping stitches pierced the air. Gasping, she had stopped at once and sat up straight, ignoring the way her back spiked in pain. The lace—once soft and snowy white, now rough and brown at the edges, reminding her of burnt parchment—hung limply from her elbow in a single strip, swinging feebly back at forth, silently telling her in a flat, listless tone that there was no point in keeping it. It was ruined beyond repair, now; it would be best if she simply tore it off and threw it away.

And for some reason, this thought had made her eyes burn. Unthinking, she had brought the meek scrap of lace to her lips and held it there, her breath tight in her chest, eyes squeezed shut. Suddenly, a torrent of unwanted thoughts burst through the powerful dams of her mind, gushing forth, a relentless surge of despair. She had thought of Philip, her home, her friends, and her family—gone. But mostly she had thought of herself and of what she must have looked like: her face red and shining with sweat; her hair unkempt with frizzy strands of it hanging about her face; her hands cracked and bleeding, turning rough with wear, the finger nails broken and dirty; her joints aching with the slightest movement; her entire being exhausted, starving, neglected. She was turning old before her time, suffering from ailments that her own mother wasn't afflicted with. She was only twenty-three—therefore, she should not have felt this way. This, none of it, should have been happening to her at all. It made no sense, none…!

She hadn't cried, thankfully. Tears (at least, her tears) were never meant for others to see; they were a spectacle that the public would forever be denied of. No, instead she had merely sat there, drawing deep breaths, trying to calm herself, knees tucked beneath her, the task of scouring the floor abandoned. The abrasive brush lay at her side, forgotten. Such was the state that Mrs. Shelton had found her in. The older woman had placed her gnarled fingers under her chin and tilted her face upward.

She had been mad to expect sympathy, and yet, for a brief moment, she had. Though seamstress had piled her with an unfair amount of work, paid her less than she should have, allowed her to sleep on an old flour sack in the storeroom, woke her up at ungodly hours of the morning, and even thrown snide remarks her way, none of this had ever really bothered her. Often times, she would deflect the insults with a sharp-yet-polite retort of her own, as was and always had been her nature, yet any hurt that she might have felt was never seen. So now, after seeing her, normally so stoic, in such a pathetic, miserable state, surely the seamstress would have taken pity on her, offered some comfort? No. Instead she found herself toppling sideways, the resounding smack of a blow to the cheek ringing in the air.

"_On yer feet, girl._"

It hadn't really hurt; it was simply the shock of it all that had made her clutch her face and look meekly into the hard, uncaring eyes of her employer and say timidly, in a voice not her own:

"_Please…my husband is dead._"

Mrs. Shelton – cruel, unfeeling woman hardened by the harsh, selfish mindset of Tortuga—had only scoffed.

"_Isn't that a coincidence? So's mine!_" Without another word, she had kicked the bucket toward her, causing dirty water to slosh out over the edges and splash onto her lap. "_Get back t'work._"

The following morning, when it was still dark out, Mrs. Shelton had roused her from a deep slumber and promptly informed her, while the muzzy sleep haze still fogged her brain, that she was being dismissed. Due to severe incompetence, the woman had said. She had lasted less than a week.

This was just one example. There were several others, ones that she didn't care to dwell on any more than she did the one with Mrs. Shelton "I did what was necessary to live," she murmured, more to herself than to him. "And eventually, I overcame my humiliation at committing such ignominious acts. Granted, the first three months were the most difficult, but after I'd finally resigned myself to a life of prostitution, I grew impassive. Dignity no longer mattered—in a place where no one possesses such a quality, it is a foolish thing to hold on to. I simply learned…not to care anymore. I think it helped that I was fairly confidant that no one I knew would ever see me like that. And, in the unlikely event that they did, I doubted that they would recognize me. Though, to his credit, Cutler did." She let out a dry laugh. "If you could have heard his voice as he said, 'What do we have here? Who _is _that…bleary-eyed _waif _of a thing? Surely not Julia Hainsworth, Marchioness of Salisbury?' And then he asked, 'Good Lord, how _do _you manage to withstand those manacles?'"

"Manacles?" exclaimed the man at her side, sounding delightfully outraged. "Surely he didn't—"

"He did, my darling," she answered calmly. "One cannot be too lenient when dealing with pirates, or even those who associate themselves with pirates, even me."

"…What did you reply?" he asked after a moment.

Her lips quirked at the memory.

"I said…'With style and grace. As always.'"

۞۞۞

Style and grace—two things that Jou-Jou, his tart, the woman he had met on Tortuga, greatly _lacked_.

Yet there she sat, telling him that she was never want for either, as she had informed Lord Cutler Beckett to whom she was supposedly nearly engaged to, a man who he now knew he thoroughly despised.

The word 'impossible' echoed within his mind, yet… He glanced over at her. She raised her eyebrows. He shook his head.

"I think I need a drink…"

"I'll send for some tea."

"That's not what I meant."

"I know," she said, smiling faintly. "But I'm afraid that the East India Trading Company frowns on drunkards. Tea-drinking, however, is highly approved of." She gazed at him with her brows still arched and he glared in return, despising the fact that she was right.

"You never minded my drinking before," he pointed out.

"No, but I think you know as well as I do that it would be in very poor taste if you were to report for duty completely inebriated. That's not to say that you _will_, of course, only that, if you were to consume any sort of intoxicant now, especially in the condition that you're currently in—"

"_Condition?_" he repeated, sounding slightly indignant as the word made him feel as though she saw him as a delicate little child.

"—you would remember," she continued relentlessly, "that drinking helps to numb the pain of...certain events...and even cause you to forget them for a time. And since that is _such _an attractive prospect and as I doubt that you would want to be recalling such awful things while trying to rid the seas of piracy…" She shrugged mildly. "…you might be inclined to become a little tipsy."

Though he knew that after witnessing his behavior on Tortuga she had every right to this worry, nonetheless, he could not help but take slight offence.

"It is true that I have made irrational mistakes in the past," he began, stymieing memories of the hurricane, "I am not so irresponsible—especially not now."

"I know," she said not unkindly. "But why take the risk?"

"Indeed," he sighed, inexplicably weary again. "Why take it…" He looked at her suddenly, meeting her eyes, seeking, studying. She held his gaze with a steadiness that one so small should not have possessed, and he found himself silently commending her for it.

The moment held, drew out, and then at last released.

"You're telling the truth," he said, faintly astounded.

"I am."

"You're…a _marchioness_," he stated haltingly.

"_Dowager _marchioness, but, indeed, yes," she gently reminded him.

"And you're…" He swallowed hard. "…familiar with Lord Beckett. You are acting as his spy."

"Yes."

"But," he remembered, "you have chosen not to divulge any information—information concerning any duplicitous conduct that I may exhibit—to him."

"Only because I doubt that you will exhibit any conduct that one might consider duplicitous," she warned him evenly. "Know that I would not hesitate to further Lord Beckett's favor of myself by betraying you if I did not think the endeavor a fruitless one."

Considering her hard-hearted character, her self-serving nature this response should not have come as a surprise to him. And, in a way, it did not. What's more, it was the fact that he startled himself with the notion that she might not have been entirely sincere in her statement. After all, he admitted, she had shown him such kindness earlier. And if she were so selfish, could she not have simply lied to Lord Beckett, spoken falsehoods about himself?

_She is not an idiot_, he reminded himself. _She must know that that man can detect a lie before he even investigates it. Still…_He could not help but remember her reaction when she learned that he was leaving Tortuga—and her. How unsure she had seemed—part of him wanted to call it 'lost'—and even a bit…sad.

_And she kissed you. Don't forget _that.

So she had. And what had _that _meant? It was a loving gesture, one bestowed by a sister or a dear friend. And though he and the trollop were hardly strangers, regardless, he knew that she wasn't the type to go about kissing just _anybody_.

_Prostitute_, his mind prompted.

It was with this thought that he uttered what must have been his twelfth sigh that day that. He looked around the bedroom, which was at once familiar and uninviting, almost cold (he normally slept at the fort, too exhausted to drag himself home to an empty bed that had always seemed far too large for him). He lifted one hand, then let it drop in a gesture of helplessness before asking the only question that came to mind:

"So what am I to call you now, then?"

'Julia' he had thought. She certainly seemed like to type who would insist upon everyone being informal and addressing her by her Christian name, painfully reminding him of Elizabeth, though it was the only similarity between the two women that he could find. She, however, proved him wrong in this assumption.

"Lady Hainsworth," she said in a strange tone, her lips thinning. "I would prefer it if you would address me as 'Lady Hainsworth.'"

۞۞۞

**Notes**

…pirates had attacked their ship, _the Merriweather_ – I'm debating whether or not to have the ship that attacked them turn out to have been _the Black Pearl_. It might be a bit much, thought I've always liked things like that because I think that it helps the OCs to be better connected to the canon characters. Hence, why James has already heard of the Marchioness of Salisbury.

…he had known that he had failed her. – this just seems like a very James thing to do, doesn't it? Maybe it's just with my James, but he seems like the type who would blame himself for something he had almost no way of preventing (ex. The hurricane incident—though, you guys already know that I refuse to believe that he sailed through it on purpose). Though, really, as far as the Marchioness goes, he _should _be feeling somewhat pleased because he _did _save her from being crushed to death and, on top of that, he's the reason she's living the high life once again. But he's James, so he won't realize this; he'll just feel guilty.

"_Marriage?_" – yes, marriage. Though, actually, they were never even engaged. While I know that this isn't an entirely original concept, I would like to think that I'm at least doing something new with it. I mean, unless it's a Beckett/OFC fic, I don't think I've come across any stories in which the girl is actually willing to marry Cutler, let alone ones where she's only after his money. Plus, I love the idea of Cutler and Julia having known each other. As the Marchioness said, they're very much alike, and I like the chemistry between the two. It almost makes me want to say that I secretly ship Beckett/Julia (Juliett?)—not that Julia will be flirting with Beckett or he'll be hitting on her in future scenes, of course. You'll see what I mean, hopefully. It's almost like, in a way, they _would _make a good couple if only they would learn not to put themselves before everyone else. With Julia, of course, this is possible; she's merely reluctant to do so. With Cutler, however, I rather doubt it unless I was to make him what would be, in my mind, slightly OOC. But, fortunately, since this is a Whorrington and not a Juliett, I don't have to do that.

"When I was young, my sole purpose was to marry, and to marry well." – this was written (slightly) in Julia's defense. While she naturally is something of a selfish, grasping creature, this type of personality was _encouraged _by her family as well as society as a whole—as was the case with most women at the time. After having spent time on Tortuga, she's become more self-serving. However, now that she no longer has to worry about food and shelter, she is still selfish, but mainly for James's sake. She doesn't like herself very much at the moment, and she thinks that, the less James associates with her, the more he will benefit. So, basically, she's trying not to act like she cares about him because she cares about him. And what she finds to be particularly awful about her new situation is that, now when she can finally afford to let somebody in, her deal with Beckett greatly hinders this.

"_I cannot explain now. …it is of the direst importance that you marry me._" – this is important to remember, but only because it comes up again at a much later date. Thankfully, Julia isn't harboring a deep, dark secret past like so many Mary-Sues. Really, the only reason she doesn't tell James this is because she feels that it isn't necessary, which, as you'll eventually find out, it isn't.

"Cutler took it well" – he really did, too. Cutler's deal with Julia, his attitude toward her, his overall treatment of her—none of it has to do with revenge of any sort. Had she actually hurt him in some way, then I could picture him seeking vengeance. However, since this wasn't the case, Cutler doesn't seem like the kind of guy who would go to any lengths just to pay somebody back, unless it would gain him money or power, as was the case with Captain Jack. And even then, though it was clear that he still held a grudge, was he really out for revenge?

"He married a friend of mine, Lillian Hapshire" – remember how, in Chapter I, Beckett thought about his wife's meddling in his affairs and then remembered that "the recent arrival of an old friend from England" would keep her occupied. If it isn't obvious already, that friend is Julia.

…his father finally left us… Philip was stricken... – if you'll recall from the very beginning of Chapter II when James is grief-stricken and Julia remembers yet another man in the same position? Yes, she was thinking of her late husband. Of course, it wasn't safe to point this out at the time as it would undoubtedly cause a lot of confusion.

"I was in debt. Up to my ears in it, in fact." – perhaps it was because I was reading Sena Jeter Naslund's _Abundance, a Novel of Marie Antoinette _at the time I was writing this but, in some ways, I think I may have based a bit of Julia's character on the doomed queen. Obviously, the main similarity is that they both brought about their own downfalls because of their relentless spending which lead to an enormous amount of debt. And I like to think that their explanation for shopping excessively is similar as well. The reason behind Julia's need for material things is that she felt greatly unloved because her husband took so long to consummate their marriage. Even when he finally _did_ "do the deed," so to speak, both were rather unenthusiastic and therefore unable to have a child. Considering the time period, the lack of sex and the lack of a kid upset quite a lot of family members and most people saw Julia as the one to blame, though, being Julia, she knew that it was more Philip's fault than her own and thus wasn't too terribly bothered by this. Though she _did _feel rather lonely and unwanted, which led to superfluous shopping, which led to massive debt. This is, more or less, what happened to Marie Antoinette, though the whole 'need to fill a void' concept is merely a theory of mine based purely on how I perceive the queen after having read several books about her. I could be wrong and probably am, but nonetheless, it influenced the creation of Julia.

…a cold, fruitless marriage. – this once again relates back to Philip's reason for marrying Julia, which, as I said, will be revealed at a later date. Simply know that he wasn't an abusive husband, or an alcoholic, or a workaholic, or a sissy, or a womanizer. He was a decent guy who thought that he was doing what was best for everybody; his main flaws were simply that he was a little bit selfish, childish, materialistic, and even afraid.

The lace… hung limply from her elbow in a single strip… – this represents Julia, what she once was, and what she had become at that point. She subconsciously sees herself reflected in the ruined bit of lace, which is why it has such an affect on her (and I apologize if she seems a little emo here, but I can't just have her go from a life of privilege to one of prostitution without making her a _little_ angsty). There was also supposed to be a moment in _the Ring O'Bells_ that focused on the same concept, only with shoes rather than lace, but I refrained from including it because it revealed too much about Julia's character and also because I felt that it was a bit too mushy for the story. After this chapter, however, I might be able to post it as a one-shot/deleted scene sort of thing.

…she saw him as a delicate little child. – which, if you think about it, he is to a certain extent. He's just too concerned for others and never thinks to look after himself, silly man.

_Prostitute_, his mind prompted. – yes, I think of this as being said in the exact same tone as Captain Jack's "Pirate!" in the first movie. Personally, I would think that 'prostitute' would be a better excuse than 'pirate', as it covers more deviant behavior. ;)

A Simple Request from the Author

I would not like to have to take this story down and rewrite it again as I have done with my works in the past. Therefore, I am asking all of my readers to alert me at once if anything is historically inaccurate, anyone is out of character, words are improperly spelled, grammar isn't up to par, or if anything seems Mary-Sue-ish even in the slightest. Remember kids, praise may be nice and make the author feel good about him or herself, but constructive criticism is more helpful in the long run. Politeness is preferred, though you may be harsh if you like – sometimes a little severity is the only way to get the message across. But also take note that by merely writing "Dear God, you suck big time. You suck. Your characters suck. Your story sucks. My eyes are bleeding from how much it sucks. Don't write anymore, I beg you" you aren't helping me anymore than people who say "OMG! U rool i wanna mary u!!!11 this is the new OTP!!!!1one1!" are. So please, help me out, but it if you can. _Merci_ in advance!


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